Dance With The Devil
by Wisteria22
Summary: "What is a lie? Tis but the truth in masquerade" -Lord Bryon. Sherlock faked his death, leaving behind a broken hearted John. Enter old favorites, such as Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty. The British Government is on the collapse, and what's this, Sherlock has a child? Read, review, and enjoy a suspense filled story. Eventual JohnLock, along with Mary bashing.
1. Chapter 1

_"And, after all, what is a lie?_

_'Tis but_

_The truth in masquerade; and I defy_

_Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put_

_A fact without some leaven of a lie"_

\- Lord Bryon

* * *

The funeral had been a simple one. Only a few people were in attendance to watch the casket slowly enter the Earth. It was swallowed without any mercy, leaving only black depths for the grieving mourners to stare down. Just as life had taken their dear friend away from them, so too did death hold the same grip. A small hand had reached out into the void, as if to pluck the corpse out like a toy that could be patched up with tape and string.

The child, so small and tiny, has eyes with a grave quality to them. They are a light blue, which most people thought of as the color of the sky. This child is far too young to know of pain and death and suffering. She did not even know how to cry. All she knew is that her father was gone. No one said when he would be returning, assuming that even a toddler could tell the difference between life and death.

"Daddy….Daddy don't go," the child would have whimpered. She would have screamed and jumped after the coffin into the void. If anyone had ever witnessed a fit, it would be nothing in comparison to what she would do. Yet this particular child stands motionless, her tiny hand continuing to reach out, in utter silence. She could never understand how to beg when she could never understand how to love.

A firm hand pulls the child back, rubbing her shoulder gently. No family is left for her, with the body slowly being covered in dirt inside of the case. Each scoop of the shovel bodes with more and more finality. The dirt strikes the coffin limply, a pathetic whimper, forcing the body to be more and more forgotten. That's all a person is when they are dead. No longer do people see them as being themselves. They are merely left out, placed six feet underground, and slowly forgotten. They are a balloon, tethered yet never remembered. These quiet souls have no place on this Earth.

The child stares at the tombstone, barely able to recognize the markings. Too young, they seem to be an alien tongue, almost in focus yet not quite. A few of the letters are understandable, but it is no matter to her. She knows the man underneath the ground. She knows the man that he is not.

"Come on, little monster," a voice coos gently. The woman, absolutely stunning, smiles down at her child, "Let's go get gelato."

The child nods, walking past a man with a cane. He barely glances at her, staring forward into space emptily. It's not the first time he has had to do this, to pretend to hold it all together. The tension swells inside of him, filling him up like a balloon. Only he cannot contain this pressure, feeling every molecule of him struggling to break free of the icy mask society requires him to wear. They cannot see the depth of his love for the man in the ground, even if they are aware of it. Society requires silly paradoxes like this. No one questions it, turning a blind eye while simultaneously judging the good army doctor. His hand quivers like a nervous bird, before grasping the cane again. This time, his knuckles turn white from the grip.

John Watson finally manages to tear his gaze away from the grave. The tears cannot come to him anymore. Each night, each morning, each meal, he cried for his best friend. The tears failed to come after a while. They, like Sherlock, had vanished from his life. The scar remained behind, as proof of the trauma he suffered. The trauma that haunted is every night.

"He was a great man, Sherlock Holmes," one of the officers murmured, shifting his feet awkwardly in the ground. John feels the tension continue to rise. These people, they drove Sherlock to this. How could they stand there, acting as if they had nothing to do with any of it? John started to turn, when a new voice spoke up.

"No, he wasn't. He was a good man. We were…we were lucky," Lestrade pauses, "He was insufferable, arrogant, an annoying dick…But he was a good man, Sherlock. This won't bring him back."

John nods, meeting the detective inspector's gaze. An ocean of pity is swimming behind Lestrade's eyes. With a sigh, John knows why, yet he is too tired to care. Everyone assumed he and Sherlock were together, a couple, an item, shag buddies…He couldn't remember their terms anymore. But now, with Sherlock gone, they stopped all pretense. They would no longer tease him about being Sherlock's date. To some, that may have been relief. But to John, he knew they only stopped because fiction is fun to tease about.

Fact tends to bore people.

"I should leave," John says, keeping his voice calm and steady. He hasn't spoken since Sherlock's eulogy. Even then, his voice was monotone, careful not to betray the smallest tremble. Every night, he practiced in the mirrors, staining the paper with tears until the pain was more common than happiness. There was no need to be afraid of the dark when it swirled around inside of him for so long.

"John…," Molly calls out, looking concerned, "Are you sure? I know you two were close and—"

"I best be off, couldn't beg the surgery for the entire day off," John lies smoothly. He couldn't take the thought of a funeral in the morning and a day left to his thoughts. It would destroy him, "Guess a dead flat mate isn't a good enough excuse these days."

He forces a chuckle and Molly nods. The noise of people arguing with him is destroying John, turning him inside out, only to be tossed around like a ragdoll. Everyone knows the pain he is in, but for his sake, they pretend to be oblivious to it. Everyone but Molly.

"There's no use in pretending that's all he was, John," Molly says softly, "He's dead. What do you have to lose?"

John turns his gaze, looking directly into her fawnlike eyes. A small smile comes up on his face. Returning his gaze towards the grave, his heart drops to the bottom of his stomach and drowns in a sea of emotions. Molly knows all too well what he has to lose. With Sherlock gone, things have become even harder for John. At night, his dreams are filled with a detective. He prefers to be asleep.

But even dreams must end.

"I'll see you later, Greg, I promise I won't forget," John says, leaving Molly's question answered only in his heart. Using his cane, he hobbles his way away from the grave slowly, remembering the days when he hadn't needed it. Only sometimes does the limp come back, in times where he cannot swim in the ocean of emotions.

Today happens to be one of those days. The road isn't far, filled with cars zooming by. No cars slowed down. None of them pulled over and wept. No one knew that Sherlock Holmes had been buried. And if they did know, John suspected they would only pretend to care. Their lives continued, without being changed in the very slightest. Yet his, his was uprooted. His life was turned around only to crash and burn, the smoldering wreckage being tended to by the occasional card of sympathy.

He sighed, gripping his cane tightly, and waved down a cab. He may never be able to put Sherlock behind him, but he could keep on moving. It was what the army doctor was good at. He would live to see another day, even if it broke his heart to do so.

"Where to?" the cabbie asks, not bothering to turn his head at John. Some cabbies, John learned, bothered to be a little more polite when picking people up from the graveyard. It did not seem that this one cared at all.

"Er…Maida Vale, please," John answered.

"What, you planning to get shot or something? Crazy fool," the cabbie rolled his eyes, "Unless you're a doctor or something, that must be great, gambling people's lives. Bet your wife loves it."

Two pills. A deadly gamble. A game, one that Sherlock was so fond of playing. John reflects back on it, reviewing the memories for as long as he could. These memories are happy ones, yet even they are tinged in pain. He, the doctor, could not save his best friend. He could save a meaningless stranger, someone of no significance at all to him, but was unable to keep his friend's heart beating.

The drive is spent in silence. Maida Vale, fortunately, is not all too far. John steps out of the cab before he realizes it, being swept inside to the doctor's practice. He still wears his funeral garb. However, as much as doctors intend to get people better, an aura of death continues to cling to hospitals and practices. His attire is not all too out of place.

"Dr. Watson, good, you're back!" the new nurse, a perky blonde woman, says as she spots him, "We've got a bit of a build up, but I told them off for when they started getting cranky. They're like toddlers, I swear."

John smiles at Mary, "Yes, yes, I suppose they are. Who am I seeing first?"

"Did you really forget, Dr. Watson?" Mary asks, handing him his chart, "You're going to be seeing me. Tonight. What do you say?"

* * *

"Sir," Anthea calls out, glancing up from her rapid fire texting, "Sir, you'll want to hear about this yourself."

Mycroft does not move, staring outside the window. The rain pours down rapidly, blurring the colors together like a never ending stream. His umbrella sits against the desk, slowly gathering dust. People had to believe that he was suffering from his brother's death. The lack of his umbrella seemed to be the most obvious sign of mourning on his part. Slowly, he glances down, inspecting his belly. A grimace caresses his face.

"Sir, it's about the election," Anthea presses, pulling a manilla file out of her bag.

"Which election?" Mycroft asks, touching the file daintily with his finger, as though he could absorb all the information without reading it. He turns his gaze towards his assistant, reading the nervousness in her face. It isn't from her husband's latest affair and nor is it a result of her niece running off to New Mexico with her boyfriend. Her economic status is fine; Mycroft has personally guaranteed it.

The question is answered for him before Anthea can respond, yet she responds anyways. Old habits die hard. "Sir, the election for…for your position. You've been unopposed for years, but some Anthony Thompson chap decided to queue up for it. We'll need to arrange a campaign."

"So? That's hardly an issue. We have more pressing matters to deal with, Anthea, such as the little fiasco down in Miami…It could be a potential security issue if we allow their incompetent officers to take care of it."

"I agree, sir, until I saw this. It's the photograph of Thompson. I had a computer analyze it, it's exactly what you think it is…Sir, what would you like me to do?" Anthea asks, slowly sliding the photograph over to Mycroft.

He flips it over, memorizing the face in an instant. It's a familiar one and not one he cared to see. A sigh escapes him, drawing his attention to the thick rain. Gravity was such a simple thing. Things fell unless they could counteract the forces. Politics, in his opinion, were similar. It only seemed to be lately that they were giving him a constant headache.

"Hm…Mention this to no one. We are going to pretend that we never saw this photograph and proceed with a campaign as usual," Mycroft nods, sliding the photograph into a drawer, "Do tell my little brother the news regarding his, er, _donation_…I'm certain he will need to take care of that before departing for New Zealand."

"Yes, sir," Anthea nods, leaving the room as quickly as she came.

Mycroft sighs, returning his gaze to the window. The rain shows no sign of letting up, backed with the power of fiercely dark clouds. When he closes his eyes, the photograph is conjured up before him.

For the first time since he was five years old, Mycroft Holmes is afraid.

* * *

It used to be that Greg Lestrade returned home to a full house. It was filled with light and cheer, along with a beautiful woman and three darling children. She would welcome him inside, pushing him towards the kitchen while the girls tugged on his knees. Thinking back on it, it seems like paradise to him. It's almost tangible, a singing dream drifting right before his eyes. Reaching out for the door knob, he can almost believe that when he opens it, love with surround him and welcome him home.

He opens the door and is greeted by emptiness. The house is still, too large for one person. Pictures of his three girls line the wall, with one of his wedding day. His heart aches, remembering the happiness, and how fleeting it proved to be. The light switch is within reach, yet he makes no move towards it. It only seems fitting that the quiet is partnered with darkness.

Lestrade sighs, collapsing into the single chair of the living room. It drove him crazy, seeing places for people to fit into his life and having them be gone. He digs out his phone, flipping through the recent calls.

_Molly Hooper – 10:00 AM_

_Philip Anderson- 12:34 PM_

_Sherlock Holmes- 1:01 AM_

_Sherlock Holmes- 1:05 AM_

_Sherlock Holmes- 1:09 AM_

_Sherlock Holmes- 1:14 AM_

_Sherlock Holmes- 2:20 AM_

His eyes begin to swell up, looking at the calls. Sherlock would never be able to pick them up. He knew that every time he called. If anyone saw death regularly, it is Lestrade. No one is able to come back from the grave. No amount of mourning will ever bring them back. All that can be done is to serve justice and then to go home, to return to life and pretend it all never happened. Bandage the wound and allow it the time it needs to heal. A thing of flowers does nothing to restore life to a loved one. Burying a box at a crossroads and hoping for a miracle does not solve the issue either. Nothing will bring his friend Sherlock back to him.

Lestrade sighs again, pressing the call button. It clicks over to voicemail within a few minutes. Each time, he hopes to hear the click of connection.

"_You've reached Sherlock Holmes. Please leave your name, number, and a detailed message. Oh, and don't be boring."_

It never happens.


	2. Chapter 2

"_The truth is rarely pure_

_and never simple"_

_-Oscar Wilde_

* * *

The flames in the fireplace crackle softly, with the occasional spark escaping. It strikes against the cobbled stone, vanishing from sight forever. But more will follow it, endlessly dancing their way into nonexistence.

"Janine, come here," an old man requests softly, lifting his gaze from the fireplace. His suit is well kept, a soft grey. The tie matches his eyes, in an attempt to appear friendly and approachable, but more causes him to look to be built of ice. There is a hunger to him, deep and penetrating.

It is a hunger that does not know what it desires.

"Yes, Mr. Magnussen?" Janine asks, smoothing out her pencil skirt as leaves her desk. Her stomach churns, knowing that nothing good can come from this. And yet, she is helpless. She has no choice but to do what her employer bids, and to guard his secrets with her reputation, or rather, her life.

"Bend over," Magnussen chuckles, grinning at her with moist lips.

"…Alright," Janine answers, slowly bending down until her face was level with Magnussen's relaxed body.

He chuckles, before raising his finger towards her eye. "I always did wonder how you manage to do it…To keep your eye open. You must be a naughty girl, to want me to keep your secrets that badly…"

His grin spreads wider and wider, as he flicks her eyeball. Almost instantly, her eyes begin to water, causing Magnussen's already moist hands to become damper. It only increases his merriment, as he watches her pupils change rapidly, depending on when he would strike. Everyone else was a toy to him.

"Is there ever going to be a line with you?" He muses, waving Janine away softly. His visitor is due to arrive at any moment.

Janine does not reply, holding herself perfectly still. Only as a statue could she escape the pain and humiliation—no one could hurt her then. "I will see you tomorrow, sir. Goodnight."

With her heels clicking against the floor, Janine takes the private lift, the doors closing behind her softly. And yet, Magnussen is not alone.

"Good evening, Cam," a voice purrs, soft like chocolate and dark like leather. An air of amusement and mystery filled it, sounding almost identical to the Cheshire Cat.

"Irene," Magnussen greets, raising to his feet, "What a surprise!"

His smile is thick and fake, as charming as a baboon's. Irene pauses, slowly removing the black gloves from her hands. Everything in the room seems to serve as a canvas for her, with her wickedness bringing them to life with dark contrast.

"Oh, I'm certain you know why I'm here," she laughs delicately, sitting down on a table. She always was fond of swinging her heels while she talked. It set people on edge, and for once, Magnussen was no exception.

Everything she did, and everything she ever would, would disturb him. Magnussen knows everything about everyone, and yet, Irene's pressure points elude him. He cannot fathom anything that goes on inside her head—there is nothing there for him to read.

He sighs, taking a sip of brandy. "I suppose that I do," he nods, eyeing the camera phone in her hand. Old habits die hard. It did not take Adler long to amass a new set of data, resulting in a new hand of cards for her to play.

Unfortunately, Magnussen is one of many flies trapped in her web.

"I need a favor," Adler explains, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a photograph, "I know you are talented in this sort of thing, and I also know that you'll do anything to protect that secret of yours…Won't you, darling?"

She holds herself like a queen, confidence oozing from her smile. Even once beaten, Irene Adler would always come out a winner. Sherlock Holmes had done so—and yet, he showed up exactly when she wanted, saving her life and allowing her to start completely over, without fear of being dead.

It hardly sounded like she had lost to Magnussen.

"What do you require?" Magnussen asks softly, taking another slow sip of brandy. "Do try to be reasonable…I cannot do the impossible."

Her smile widens, as she walks over to Magnussen, practically strutting in her heels. "I think you'll be able to do this easily."

* * *

The first few weeks of campaigning had taken a toll on Mycroft. All of the walking had caused him to lose at least ten pounds, and yet, he could not notice the slightest difference in his appearance. He looks the same as he always has—a cruel, cold, yet attractive young minor government official.

"Well, I suppose a bit more work is in order," he sighs, climbing onto the treadmill as if he was climbing to the top of Mount Everest.

Exercising was not his favorite activity to do. Mycroft could spend endless amounts of time in debates, mostly correcting other people. He could use up years of his life on rallying behind a cause. And his hours are best spent, in his opinion, organizing the methods of government from the shadows. Sadly, burning calories never would interest him, no matter how many times his friends—well, more colleagues—encourage him to do so.

He relaxes, walking slowly to warm up. Or, more likely, it is to postpone the more strenuous physical activity as long as possible. But if there is one thing that made his workouts durable, it is his chance to delve into his own mind, and discover the little details he had missed before.

Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply, and finds himself inside his memory villa. Most people tend to call it a mind palace, such as his dearest little brother. The Romans originally developed the technique, as they used it to memorize speeches in terms of an overall persuasive structure. As of such, memory villa remained the correct name—and Mycroft loves to be correct.

Distantly, Mycroft can see inside of a locked room. Steam covers the glass, obscuring the people inside of it from most sight. Yet the noises are quite audible, growing louder and louder the closer Mycroft walks towards the door. He inhales again sharply, his pulse gaining from either activity or nerves—he fancies it to be the former.

The images zoom by, with more and more shadowy shapes appearing through the door. Screaming begins, cries of despair and wails for help. They fall on deaf ears, with Mycroft striding slowly towards the door. It seems to get farther and farther away the closer he gets, causing the task to become useless.

But yet, the speech continues to be clear and distinct. He can hear the accents, identifying one of them as being Irish in origin. Another one is American. A third is unclear—possibly some odd combination. Together, the voices mix and swirl into an unpleasant harmony, with tiny cracks appearing on the door.

"Open," Mycroft states calmly, watching the contents of the memory spill out of the door. A cloud of darkness races out, wrapping around Mycroft like a stranger's embrace.

The shadowy figure of a man steps out next, thrashing around violently in the smoke. He seems to be saying something, yet the words are becoming too quick for anyone to understand.

"You are dead," Mycroft states calmly, "And yet, you are alive."

He smiles, although it does not reach his eyes. It never does.

"How funny." He reaches forward, ready to examine another part of the memory, when he is brought back to reality by the jarring ring of his cell phone. He looks down in surprise.

His brother never calls when he can text.

"What is it, brother of mine?" Mycroft says plainly, hiding any trace of distress from his voice, "I assure you, John is unaware that—"

"_It's about my donation, Mycroft._" The voice is clipped and clinical, yet fear bleeds through it. Mycroft frowns, feeling his own heart accelerate, yet not from exertion.

"What about it?"

"_It's gone missing,"_ his brother pauses, evidently struggling to state this clearly and calmly. Or perhaps, he is worried about what Mycroft will think of him. _"And…it's been used."_

Mycroft sighs, stepping off the treadmill. "Consider it taken care of."

The phone line clicks, with Mycroft dropping his phone to his side. He frowns, looking outside the window almost wistfully, before chuckling to himself softly. This is what he is good at, after all.

This is what made him Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

"You're joking!" Lestrade exclaims, knocking over his doughnut and coffee in excitement. "She's a celebrity!"

Donovan does not share his excitement, frowning at him from over her clipboard. "Yes, yes, yes. Her body was found late last night and we're on it."

"Where was it found again?"

"In the Thames," she replies, checking her watch, "Couldn't have been dead long though, she gave a concert yesterday morning. It's dumb luck that we managed to find it so soon."

Lestrade nods, putting a spare police badge in his pocket. He had always been aware of Sherlock's habit of stealing them. At first, it had been annoying—but now, he wishes that Sherlock would return, just to take his badge. It's the little things that he misses the most about his dearly departed friend.

"I don't suppose we were lucky enough to have much to go off of with the corpse, do we?" Lestrade asks, putting on his coat.

Criminals continue to get smarter and smarter, realizing better and more effective ways to dispose of evidence. Sure, it helped give Lestrade some job security, but it also caused his job to become much more difficult than it used to be. Without Sherlock, the solve rate of the department had plummeted. Thinking with such clear and precise logic is something Lestrade continues to try to do, but he also continues to struggle with it.

There would only be one Sherlock Holmes, after all.

"Nope," Donovan shakes her head, "But there was a bit of nasty business with affairs and such, so it should be a good case."

And by that, she means that it would reflective positively on their solve record. They need as many solved cases as they could possibly get—anything to raise the average up to the level people expected for Scotland Yard's homicide department.

"Great," Lestrade nods, "Let's get down to the morgue."

The door opens before either of them can get to it, and two men dressed in expensive looking suits walk in. Their shades conceal their eyes and intentions, reducing them to being almost less than humans. They are simply pawns.

"That case has been transferred to another department," the first one, a short black man states calmly, "You are now being assigned to the kidnapping of Addy Snell."

Lestrade frowns sharply, setting down his mobile phone on the desk. "Not our division. We deal with homicides, mate."

"Not at the moment," the man replies smoothly, "The Queen of England has determined this to be of national importance."

"Wait, the Queen?!" Donovan exclaims, her eyes widening, "Why's this kid so important to the Queen? Is she royalty or something?"

"Or something," the man nods, before allowing his partner to step forward with a folder. "In here, you will find the evidence needed to solve this case. Do not allow anyone else to know that you are investigating it—it is sensitive information."

"Of course, we deal with this stuff all the time, yeah, yeah," Lestrade mutters, flipping through the file, "Who do we contact once we've found the kid? Relatives?"

The second man—stalky, with a missing tooth—hands Donovan a card. She flips it over, before nodding in understanding. "Don't worry, we'll have her found as soon as we can, gents."

No smile appears on their face, and they leave, as quickly as they had come. The atmosphere in the room has changed. No longer is there the excitement of a celebrity case, of getting to bask in the limelight and have papers sold with their names in them.

Instead, they have been handed a case almost impossible to solve, yet required to be. Failure is not an option when it came to the monarchy. Even if the monarchs were considered to be figureheads, neither desire failing to fulfill the wishes of the Queen. And if it is true, that this girl is of national importance, then the entire nation hinges upon the outcome of their work.

"No pressure," Lestrade mutters, shoving his phone into his pocket, "If we still had Sherlock, we wouldn't be in this pickle. He can solve anything."

"Yeah, well, saying that isn't going to make him come back," Donovan frowns, throwing her own coat on, "Come on, I'll drive."

* * *

"I'll pay the cab fare, go on," Mary smiles, ushering John out of the cab. She hands the driver twenty quid, before turning around and grasping her boyfriend's free hand.

"It's going to be alright," she promises, kissing his cheek.

He nods, clutching her hand strongly, while holding a bouquet of flowers in the other. Besides Mrs. Hudson and those present at the funeral, John was always alone when he went to visit Sherlock's grave. The moments he had with his dead friend were private. Sometimes, he would just stare at the stone, trying to comprehend that such an amazing person could be so lost, so sad that he had to take his own life.

At other times, he would curse and swear, kicking and punching at the air in rage. This time, his girlfriend would be with him—there would be a spectator to his feelings and his emotions. The prospect scares him, yet also, it excites him.

"He's this way," John explains, leading Mary down the path, as if they were simply meeting Sherlock in a park for a delightful afternoon rendez-vous.

They walk in silence, down the rather short path until they reach the grave. Trees surround it, almost like a shield to keep the corpse below from any harm. A small, appreciative smile graces John's face, though it is quickly replaced by a frown.

"He died, yes. Killed himself…," he pauses, looking at his girlfriend before awkwardly setting the flowers down in front of the headstone. The flowers he had brought previously are still there, though they have already began to wilt.

"Ah, it's a shame," Mary says, her voice filled with sympathy, "I think I would have liked him."

"Yeah, you would have hated him," John chuckles sadly, "He was a pain in the arse. One of the biggest jerks I've ever known."

"But he was your best friend," Mary reminds him, squeezing his hand again.

John feels no need to reply. He glances down at the grave, thinking of all of the things he should have said to Sherlock before he died. Some of them dance on the tip of his tongue, like the ghost of a whisper. The thought of saying them fills him with dread and terror, as if someone would punish him for missing his friend.

"I never did tell him that," John admits, his eyes slowly beginning to water, "I told him he was a prick. I called him every name in the book, but…I never got to tell him that…"

"I know," Mary says, clasping his hands, "It's okay. You don't have to say it. I think he knows, John."

For a moment, the clouds of grief dancing around John's head lift. The world seems a little brighter, as he imagines the ghost of Sherlock watching him fondly. His friend would most likely hate the afterlife, or perhaps he would love it—John never could be certain about Sherlock's opinions about things.

But then, as always, the clouds return. He remembers distinctly the day his friend died. Nothing he said managed to stop him. He was powerless to help the person who was the most important person in the world for him. He was useless.

"No, Mary," John sighs, turning his back on his girlfriend, "I don't think he did."


	3. Chapter 3

_"We live in a world that is built_

_on promises constructed by liars"_

-Unknown

* * *

Lestrade and Donovan step out into the drizzling rain, their umbrellas being set up automatically. It is a reflex for them, as mindless as breathing and just as beneficial. The elder of the pair, his hair greying from years of endless stress, lights a cigarette. He takes a drag gratefully, finding some solace in the comforting habit.

"Boss, smoking ain't gonna help us," Donovan frowns, continuing on. "Look, we need to come up with an idea of where she went to."

"Well, if I had a bloody clue, trust me, I'd let you know," he sighs, his voice filled with exasperation. "The file gives us hardly anything! Only a photograph, really."

She nods, pulling out the now well-thumbed photo. A girl is smiling, her hair loose and a bit damp—it isn't particularly clean either. Her coat, however, is of high quality, shielding her against the elements. The darkness of it resides in her eyes, staring out of the picture as if she knew, at that very moment, that she would be a victim.

Maybe that is her destiny.

"She's got nice clothes," Donovan offers, glancing at the photograph again, "Probably was in decent money, especially since the Queen's taken a liking to her."

"Yeah, she's clearly important," Lestrade resists the urge to roll his eyes, frowning again at the photograph. "Sherlock would probably—"

Donovan's hand is a blur, moving rapidly before striking Lestrade's face. Glaring at him, she examines his state of confusion, only to follow up with another blow.

"What the bloody hell!" Lestrade exclaims, rubbing his sore face. The blood is rushing towards the affected areas already, pooling and creating a vivid shade of scarlet. Gently, Lestrade traces the areas, feeling it throb against his fingertips, the heat of it rapidly increasing.

"Put yourself together," Donovan scolds, "We pull the kid's records, and we carry on like always. We're British. It's what we do. We don't whine about dead detectives, we drink our damn tea and go to work."

Slightly shaken, Lestrade nods in agreement. He grips his umbrella stronger and leads the way down the busy streets, in which the passerby looked like drowned rats. Everyone was slick and dirty, despite the water endlessly pounding down on them. It could not make them pure. Nothing could.

Eventually, after walking for four blocks, they reach the building where public records are held. If they could find any additional information about Addy Snell, this would be the place.

Like many public offices, this one appears nicer on the outside. The stonework is beautiful, with a historical flare. However, once inside, the area is dark and dingy. Counters were overflowing with messily organized papers. Workers stare mindlessly into space, trying to find meaning where there was no meaning to find.

A sad woman, her hair up in a bun, motions the pair over. Her black garments are tattered and stained; yet there are some mild attempts at repair. "What can I help you two with?"

Lestrade pulls out his badge, showing to it briefly, before launching into an explanation. "We need all records on Addy Snell, and any possible relations."

The record keeper stares at him blankly, "I assume this is a minor, no?" She pauses briefly, before continuing on. "I'm going to need more than just a badge to release those records."

Donovan slides the card across the counter, at which the record keeper nods and leaves to retrieve the file. A moment later, she comes back, her face crinkled with frustration.

"I am most sorry, officers," she says softly, "But there is no record of any person named Addy Snells, or any variation of that."

"The kid doesn't exist?" Donovan asks, leaning forward slightly.

"Never did," the record keeper confirms, "If Addy Snell ever breathed, I would know about it. I'm sorry to not be of more help, but even I cannot know what is not real."

The duo nods, awkwardly walking out of the shop. Never before had they been asked to investigate a case without a victim. The girl in the photograph—she exists, did she not? And of course, why would the Queen take such interest in someone who does not exist?

The answers made no sense.

Once again, Lestrade finds himself missing the reassurance of having Sherlock on the case.

"Maybe Addy Snell isn't her real name," Donovan suggests, breaking the quiet silence, "It could be an alias…"

Lestrade nods, walking onwards as his only reply. The rain continues to beat down on him, yet he makes no move for his umbrella.

"I'll run her photograph through a few search engines," Donovan promises, "There's an answer out to this case somewhere—and if there's not one, then the Queen is playing some sick game."

"Long live the Queen," Lestrade grins wickedly.

* * *

It had been a while since John last left Baker Street. As he pays for his ticket to take the tube, he wonders how it could feel so normal to never return to that place. Instead, he goes home to his shabby little flat every day, wondering which one of his neighbors will be arrested on that particular evening.

It is the most he can afford with his meager salary and pension.

The ride to his apartment is pleasant. No one ever really bothers John, instead content to live in their own little worlds. Sure, they jostle him and scream at him on occasion, yet they always forget about him as quickly as he forgets about them.

By the time John arrives at his stop, his stomach curls with unhappiness. Truthfully, he detests his home. He hates this life that he has sentenced himself to. The ache in his heart has not yet healed, and foreseeably, it never will.

He is scarred.

His apartment is located at the end of the row, requiring a decent walk. Everyone seems to avert their eyes as he walks back—whether or not it is intentional, John is uncertain. He hasn't socialized with them all, as instead, he pours himself into his work. It consumes him, with his girlfriend being the only other person he truly interacts with.

It seems almost too risky for him to make friends. The doorknocker is straight, reminding him of how his former flat mate would leave it crooked. His key sticks slightly in the lock, refusing to come back out without some hard tugs. One of these days, John fears, the doorknob will come off completely.

"John!" a shrill voice cries out, stopping him just as he had opened the door. "Wait a moment, would you?!"

He stops suddenly. Another familiar voice cries out, yet he is unable to quite understand it.

"We need to talk to you!" Donovan exclaims, with Lestrade's voice still failing to be understandable. John turns around, stepping almost defensively back into his apartment. "What…What are you two doing here?" he frowns slightly, "I mean, it's good to see you but…"

"It's a case," Lestrade explains, stepping into range of John's hearing. "We need you."

"I'm not like him," John stammers, his face turning bright red. "I…I can't do the things that he can."

"You're someone willing to help," Donovan counters, "We need all the help we can get, you know? And you're plenty good enough. You knew how he worked better than anyone."

"It's a high profile case," Lestrade adds, "The Queen herself needs it solved. So…For Queen and country, John, just consider it?"

"I….," John pauses, before stepping aside to allow them into his apartment. They oblige immediately, stepping into the dingy area, void of almost all decorations. It could hardly be said to be lived in.

"Addy Snell is the name of the girl," Lestrade offers, "We know very little about the girl, beyond what's in this file…For old time's sake, John…"

Images of the detective swim in John's eyes. He can see Sherlock grinning at the most bizarre cases. His friend would have loved this—he would have been estatic and jumping around.

But what about him?

Did he love cases? Or did he just enjoy the way it made Sherlock light up?

"I don't know," John answers lamely, sitting down on a beaten up couch in defeat. "If it's important enough, then…Well, I suppose I can try."

Lestrade breaks into a grin, punching John playfully on the arm. "Knew you'd come around!"

"Have you got any leads?" John asks, his heart pounding as he opens up the file. The ghost of Sherlock sits behind him, rambling on and on about the various possibilities. A child of national importance with no records—yet she exists. Somewhere, perhaps near or far, a child is alone.

"No," Donovan shakes her head, "I've got a theory, though. Addy Snell's the girl's alias, right?"

"Yeah," Lestrade shrugs, "Don't see how that's all important."

"Maybe Snell stands for something," John suggests.

"Nah," Donovan shakes her head, "She doesn't exist in our records…But she has to exist somewhere. I checked all of the hospitals already—same with most birth centers—nothing."

"Are you….Are you suggesting that we look around and ask people if they've seen her?" John chuckles, "That's not going to work at all."

"I suggest we go to the local sperm bank, see if they know anything about a kid called Addy Snell. Odds are slim, but maybe we'll just get lucky."

Lestrade nods in consensus. Most sperm banks will keep the record of the reported name of the child—not necessarily the legal name. The law had been implemented recently—Mycroft had been behind the big push for it.

"Let's go to a sperm bank, then," Lestrade grins, "Never expected to say that before."

* * *

"Next!" A tired looking lady sighs, staring at the clock. Time seems to be slowing down just for her, with each second having palpable weight to it. Her job is dull and boring. She manages records and instructs young, nervous men on how to donate sperm that day.

An illustrious career.

"Thank you," Donovan says, marching up to the counter. "First, that's right. I'm not a bloke. I need you to look up an Addy Snell in your records."

The lady yawns, despite this being the most interesting thing that has ever happened in her magnificent career. "Look, if you want to donate sperm, you just go fill out this form and—"

"I ain't here to donate," Donovan frowns, sliding the Queen's card across the table. "Look up Addy Snell, now…Please."

She takes the card, looking at it with bored surprise. After a few moments of punching computer keys, she returns her gaze to Donovan.

"Addy Snell was the result of a sperm donation," she confirms, "The donor is labeled as BA3L0. I cannot tell you anything more than that. Now, if you'd move aside so I can help those three gents…"

"Oh!" John chuckles, "We're not, um, here to, well, you know…Get paid for our sperm. We're with her."

Lestrade nods, awkwardly clapping John on the back.

"Oh!" the lady smiles, "Always nice to see a couple in here. Good to see you both! If so, please allow that gentlemen at the door…"

The trio nods, with Donovan quickly saving the identification number of the sperm donor. It's the best lead they have towards figuring out this entire mystery. After jumping through a few more hoops, then, they would be able to figure out the identity behind the donor. The record must have been kept somewhere, logically. Remembering the request, they walk around the corner of the office, going out of sight of the door. The other exit is not too far from them.

"Yes, can I help you sir?" the lady smiled emptily, looking at a nicely dressed man. He is wearing a tweed blazer and accompanying pieces, with an umbrella held loosely in his hand.

"Ah, yes," Mycroft states smoothly, moving towards the counter.

He hasn't noticed the three of them. It isn't possible for him to have seen them—their luck. However, that does not stop them from watching Mycroft talk in hushed voices with the lady at the counter.

"What's he doing here?" Lestrade whispers, looking at John for some sort of answer. "Do you think he's involved?"

"I've absolutely no idea," John frowns, watching the mysterious exchange.

* * *

Lestrade walks into the empty house again, his head heavy with numerous thoughts. Nothing of that day had made any sense. The girl who perhaps never existed—the government official at the sperm bank. All of it seems more like a nightmare or a daydream, some twisted version of reality, rather than something that could possibly occur.

Well, there is a difference between possible and probable, Lestrade recalls softly. All of his thoughts are colored with various shades of grey, amounting to nothing short of sadness and misery.

A bottle of rum sits on the counter, almost completely untouched. It takes barely any effort for Lestrade to remove the cork and pour out several shots worth into a glass. Some soda is added to dilute the concentration, yet for the most part, it remains strong.

Strong enough to make his dreams a little quieter.

He picks up the glass, sipping at the caffeinated liquid. The bubbles nuzzle against his lips, with the taste of the rum being awfully apparent. Only a few moments have passed before Lestrade finishes the glass, and begins to prepare another. This time, another shot has been added.

"To Sherlock," Lestrade murmurs, before downing the alcohol. His vision is already starting to blur, with the ground swaying beneath him. Everything is sadly happy around him.

His phone stares up at him coldly, with no new messages for him. The world seems to have forgotten him, to be ignorant to his pain. On the outside, Lestrade is painted with happiness and calm—the most reasonable and likeable person at Scotland Yard. The inside is a completely different story.

"You better pick up this time, you bastard," Lestrade mutters, hitting a button on his phone without any grace.

The dial tone is mocking, telling Lestrade over and over again how Sherlock is dead. A great man is dead, all because of a lack of judgment on the part of the police. But yet, they had done exactly what they were supposed to do. They had followed the letter of the law and went through all of the proper procedures.

In a few moments, the phone would switch over to the answering machine. The same recording would play, just as it always had. Just as it always will play.

_Click._

There is a sound of breathing on the other end of the line, followed by the phone call quickly ending. The beeps echo in Lestrade's ear, as he breaks out into a cold sweat. His ears are pounding, the blood flow to his head rapidly increasing. In a moment, he is falling towards the ground, the phone in his hand being a seemingly impossibly heavy weight.

It could not be possible, Lestrade reasons. Sherlock is dead. Lestrade saw the body himself, and Molly—one of the best specialist registar in London—had confirmed as much.

Someone else may have that number, perhaps. It is rather unlikely, as the line still had money sent to it in order to keep it running. Lestrade never questioned anyone who felt a need to keep Sherlock's phone running.

"He's alive," Lestrade whispers, "the bloody bastard is alive!"

* * *

"There once was a princess who lived in a big castle," Irene reads softly, holding a majestic book.

The illustrations are superb, the kind that you would see in a film. Each is incredibly detailed and rather picturesque—they come to life. The spine of the book is a bit worn, from years of use, and the sides are becoming a bit tattered. And yet, the glossiness of the cover, with an intricate illustration and mesmerizing cursive script.

"She was a beautiful girl, and when she grew up, she would want for nothing," Irene continues, a small child sitting next to her eagerly.

The girl's light blue eyes are filled with curiosity, as if she could stare at the contents and eventually gleam their meaning. The letters are nothing more than exotic symbols, strange drawings that carry significance she could not understand.

"Something bad is going to happen to her," the child says, reaching out with a thin and tiny, breakable hand for the book.

Irene nods, continuing on, "But an evil witch—Maleficent—cursed the child to fall asleep on her sixteenth birthday. This sleep would last forever."

"Forever?"

"Of course," Irene murmurs, "Unless she is awakened with true love's kiss, the princess will be in a state worse than death."

The child nods in quasi-understanding, as if it all made sense to her. People die around her all the time—it's nothing new. To her, death is no different than leaving forever. There is nothing too terrible to fear about it. It is normal.

"Her parents, of course, tried to prevent this," Irene smirks, "The witch's curse said that the princess would prick her finger on a spindle. Her parents, then, locked all of the spindle's in the kingdom away."

"They wanted to protect her," the child states, staring at the colorful illustrations in awe.

"Yes, Arwen, they did," Irene nods, "But when she grew older, she found herself drawn to the locked room. Almost as if under a spell, she walked into the room with all of the spindles…Enchanted, she reached her finger out, and pricked it."

"And then she fell asleep forever?" Arwen questions, peering at the image of the helpless princess.

"Yes," Irene smiles, looking at Arwen in the same manner a wolf looks at a defenseless fawn. "She falls asleep forever. No one rescues the princess. The end."

Arwen frowns. Confusion paints her face, creating lines on otherwise smooth and fresh skin. She looks up from the page, gazing into the cold and unfeeling eyes of Irene.

"Why doesn't anyone go to save the princess?"

"In real life, no one is saved," Irene answers, delicately stroking the cheek of the child. "There aren't any heroes. There are only witches and princesses."

"And you're a witch?" Arwen asks, with an air of sadness creeping into her otherwise innocent face.

"Of course, my child."


	4. Chapter 4

"_Here I stand, helpless and left for dead._

_Close your eyes, so many days go by._

_Easy to find what's wrong, harder to find what's right._

_I believe in you, I can show you that I can see right through all your empty lies._

_I won't stay long, in this world so wrong."_

-Breaking Benjamin's _Dance with the Devil_

* * *

The wind is whips Sherlock's coat around him, causing it to look like the cloak of a magician. His eyes scan the landscape, taking in the minutest details. Every angle is observed with care, as Jim Moriarty's body slowly bleeds out behind him. Cars meander by, not bothering to pay attention to the gruesome scene that is about to take place.

Enter John Watson. Sherlock's phone heats up slowly in his hand from use, and from the slightly heavy breathing on the line, he knows that John isn't clueless about what is to come. The explanation is lazy, almost, with phrases still that will haunt John forever.

"It's just a magic trick," Sherlock states coolly, his eyes beginning to water, yet not from tears.

The flower that was used to find the missing children—the ones who ate chocolate laced from mercury—has already entered Sherlock's system. The effects are tears, and of course, a death-like appearance. With his remaining strength, he throws the phone backwards. It falls on the ground, shattering quietly.

Sherlock stumbles forward, John looking up with horror as his friend begins to fall. After a few seconds, Sherlock's flailing body is blocked from sight by a small building and a careful series of trucks. His body hits against a safety net—the same exact kind used at the circus. He flails, going completely limp—he is almost no different from a corpse.

The Woman—a missing sex worker—appears and flings his body onto the ground. It appears to be a straight shot down to John, who still cannot see the net. Molly Hooper then vaporizes the net, causing it to become complete ash. She fakes the records and Sherlock is listed as dead.

John Watson is alone in the world.

"So…You think Sherlock is alive then," Lestrade murmurs, shaking John out of his thoughts. The image of his flatmate somehow surviving via circus safety nets is still swimming in his mind.

"It's obvious!" Anderson grins, his face boasting slight ginger stubble. "Look, John, you were there! You just couldn't see the net and that's how he did it!"

John swallows thickly, his heart pounding furiously. The flashbacks start again, a mixture of Afghanistan and his friend. The sound of the devil rages in his ears, his head feeling light and heavy at the same time. Every movement takes more strength than would be needed.

"No," John says gruffly, clearing his throat in an attempt to breathe, "He's dead. He's quite dead."

"He can't be dead!" Anderson exclaims, leaning back with a laugh. "Come on, John. He's Sherlock Holmes! He's the real deal! If anyone could do it, it's him!"

"Then no one can do it," John says, gripping the table. His knuckles quickly turn white, the rest of his body trembling softly.

"Give it a rest," Lestrade sighs, with a peculiar look in his eye. His face is grim, yet he leans forward, almost expectant.

Anderson, however, is not nearly as happy. His sad stubble ages his face, turning him into some poor fired alcoholic conspiracy theorist. Nicotine stains litter his fingers, with a box of cigarettes sticking out of his pocket in the most obvious manner. It's almost empty.

"There have been seemingly impossible cases solved all over the world!" Anderson insisted, sobbing into his napkin. "It has to be him! No one else could be that clever! The case with the monk and the senator! Or the one with the mermaid and the raptor!"

"Coincidences," John replies gruffly, taking a swig of his beer.

"I'm afraid I have to side with John," Lestrade nods, "But I'll take a look into some of these cases for you, purely because I care about you, Philip."

"Thank you!" Anderson exclaims, flinging his hands about in excitement. "I can't wait to see the looks on your faces when you realize Sherlock Holmes is alive!"

"Or when he's pronounced dead, over and over again…," John snorted, continuing to grip the table. "Come on, Donovan said she set up a meeting with someone who can help on the case."

"Oh, did she now?" Lestrade raises his eyebrows, watching as John stands up and begins to walk out. His entire body is shaking, with his leg dragging slightly. He limps his way out of the small bar, as if he has no need of a cane, just as he hadn't needed one for years.

Lestrade's mind flashes back to the phone call from a few days ago. Someone had—Sherlock had—picked up the phone when he called. No one else would have had that phone number. No one else could have had Sherlock's phone. Sherlock is indeed alive.

But with John's limp freshly returned, Lestrade swallowed sharply and followed him out of the bar. He mustn't tell John.

* * *

"What seems to be the trouble, boys?" A perky girl, sporting short fiery red hair, grinned at them from behind the desk. The desk is covered with various trinkets, most of them purchased at conventions and comic book stores. Her trendy Macintosh computer is decorated with Avengers and Lord of the Rings stickers—both suiting to make her seem far younger than she is.

Well, younger than she ought to be. Neither John or Lestrade has an idea of how old she is. Donovan would know, yet she is busy chasing down other various leads—last they heard from her, she was onto something big.

"We need you to hack into someone's records," John states plainly, with a cute yet psychopathic grin to punctuate his sentence.

"How forward of you," the girl chuckles, "Guess you're here for my side business, then."

"You're a private investigator officially," Lestrade muses, looking at the authentic Tony Stark jacket the girl wears. "Sorry, what exactly is your name again?"

"Right now…," the girl muses, her eyes looking slightly upwards, as if she is scanning a list of names on a computer, "I believe my current identity, as far as you're concerned, is Margaret."

"…Alright, Maggie," John launches into his speech, ignoring Lestrade's look of concern. He is used to people needing to use fake names—Anthea, Mycroft's assistant is a prime example. In the field Maggie works in, it makes sense—she needs to keep herself safe.

"Can you find the records of the sperm donor who created Addy Snell?" John questions, sliding the file against the table, "It's very important."

Lestrade nods, "Important enough that we can't go through normal channels."

"Right," Maggie smiles, tapping a bobble head version of Captain Jack Sparrow, "I think I can do it. We'll need to discuss my fee, then."

She flips through the file, looking at it absentmindedly. Her face nods in understand, as she licks her finger and uses it to turn the page. "I've always wanted to do that," Maggie admits, "I always thought it looked funny to lick something to turn it…"

"So you can do it," John presses, drumming his fingers against his legs.

"Of course," Maggie grins, her eyes closing as she does so, almost like an anime character. "I can hack into anything. But my fee…I want to cameo in an episode of that new BBC series."

"Pardon?" Lestrade chuckles, looking over at John warily, "We're not part of the—"

"I know," Maggie grins, "But if you want this enough, you'll make it happen. It's the new show—I think it's called _Sherringford_? Yeah, yeah. That one. I want to be in it."

"Then we'll do it," John says, uncertain on whether he is lying or not, "We'll get you into _Sherringford._"

"Great!" Maggie exclaims, clapping her hands together. "I'll send you boys a call once I've gotten into the records—I only need your sperm records here, you can take the rest of the file back with you."

* * *

It's a decent turn out, for only a minor debate. Mycroft strides up to the stage and takes his place behind the podium. On the other side of the room, his opponent is already there, lazily chewing gum as if the entire debate is meaningless.

It is one of the few things Mycroft would normally agree on—had his opponent been anyone else, of course. Anthony Thompson winks from across the room, nodding his head up at Mycroft as if to say _Sup, bro?_

"And we shall now begin tonight's debate," a cheery moderator calls out, causing mild applause to sound off. A few television networks are broadcasting the debate.

"We have Anthony Thompson of the labor party running against our current elected official, Mycroft Holmes," she explains, brushing the few hairs that escaped her tight bun back. "Let's have an opening statement from Mr. Thompson!"

"Thank you, Beverley," Anthony begins, with a hint of an Irish accent. "Our country is broken. We are divided by the past. We can't keep on staying still. We need to move forward. For God and our country! For the Queen! Better economy, more jobs, less illness, more education!"

The crowd erupts into applause, leaving Mycroft dumbfounded. The brief speech could not be described as eloquent—if anything, it is a jumble of ideas. More specifically, ideas that everyone agrees with—something that allows everyone to get on the bandwagon.

"Do you have any specifics in that lovely, erm, speech of yours?" Mycroft teases, frowning slightly to himself, "It's hardly a plan of government to just—"

"Mr. Holmes, please, it's not your turn," Beverley adds sharply, before beaming apologetically over at Anthony.

"Oh, no need to worry," Anthony smiles, "Did I mention that we need to have less hungry orphans on the streets? We need people who can provide for themselves! We need to bring God back to England!"

"That doesn't make any sense at all!" Mycroft protests, "You are simply stating everything that everyone will go along with…Do you have any idea of what this position entails? No. You do not. You are spouting nonsense about things that are beyond your control."

The crowd goes silent, with a few glaring up at Mycroft. Most of them are young—in their rebellious stage, trying drugs for the first time, and hating the government—perfect. Anthony looks at Mycroft with a shrug, chewing his gum almost tauntingly.

Very well, Mycroft ponders to himself. He'll just have to sink to Anthony's level. If the people want speech without specifics, then that is exactly what he'll give them.

Mycroft turns, nodding when the moderator announces that he may speak. With a deep breath, he begins, launching into the most logical yet bandwagon-creating speech that he could possibly give. The jaws of the audience drop, with them looking up in wonder at him—he's won them over.

He smiles to himself.

"Your turn," he states softly, looking at Anthony with cold, detached eyes void of feeling.

* * *

Irene motions her latest client out of the room. She relaxes, free from the hard pressures of the long workday. Arwen is upstairs, playing Club Penguin on Irene's computer—she'll be busy for a while. For a few moments, Irene can do anything she wants.

Plotting murder seems to be a good choice for now.

She picks up her phone, dialing quickly. The line is picked up almost instantly, and she grins, enjoying the way this particular person is wrapped around her finger. The power rush always feels pleasant, better than any drug that could possibly be manufactured.

"_What is it you need?"_ the voice answers softly, as if afraid to be recognized.

"I need you to continue the favor," Irene grins, lounging on a pure white couch, her red dress contrasting with it greatly.

"_Alright_," the person clicks their tongue, _"Whatever you need, if I can make it be, it will be…_"

"I need a box," Irene explains, her eyes looking at the abandoned copy of _Sleeping Beauty_. She can hardly stop herself from giggling.

"_I assume not just any box_."

"A box, that when you open it, you prick your finger with poison," Irene says, "Ideally, the victim should be paralyzed and only die after a week or so has passed."

"_And just what type of person do you think I am?_" the person laughs sadly, _"I'm not a murderer!"_

"You will be," Irene presses, "If you don't do this, I'll expose you. And we both know, this is the easier way."

There is a pause. The person on the other end of the line sighs, before agreeing to her whims.

"_It'll be delivered tomorrow. Goodbye._"

Irene cackles as the line goes dead. A sound of sadness comes from upstairs—one of Arwen's imaginary pets—puffles—must have run away. She tosses the phone aside, looking back at the book of fairytales.

It has been a while since she's stirred up a bit of trouble. Part of this, of course, is about money and power—about paying back a favor to someone else as well. A distraction is needed for his plot to turn out. The distraction will just happen to make her rich again as well.

But of course, part of this is about boredom as well. Being a mother hasn't helped with that.

* * *

Mary parks her car, finding one of the last available spots. Parking is always a nightmare in London—it's no exception by her flat. Wearing her signature pink coat, she steps out, swinging her purse over her shoulder. Her flat is one of the nicer ones—it's on the bottom floor with a nice view of the Thames.

She doesn't have a flat mate either. Perhaps, if things go well with the doctor, she'll be able to remedy that situation. But for now, it's just her. She likes it that way. She enjoys being all alone with a pile of unopened mail.

Most of it is fairly standard—bills, cards, flyers—and doesn't warrant much attention. One envelope, however, catches her eye. It's handwritten, with a flowing blue penmanship. The name, however, is what stands out—it's addressed to A.G.R.A.

Her heart skips a beat, knowing that only one other person in the world knows the significance of those initials. Yet her hands remain steady, a result of the type of work she used to be into. Hardly any outsider would be able to tell that Mary is afraid.

"My dearest Mary," Mary reads aloud, looking down at the letter in horror.

Her eyes quickly skim the letter, picking out the important phrases. The signature is vague—_C.A.M. _In various spots, the letter feels damp and wet. It would be no use, however, to take it for DNA testing. They know all of her information. They know how to ruin her life—how to _end_ her life.

This individual owns her, from now on. Her stomach churns, as she looks down at the letter one more time. The most horrifying yet calming phrase jumps out at her, as if it is bolded:

_Your services are required. Welcome back._

She gulps, reading the details of her latest assignment. If she completes it without calling the police or other law enforcement officials, without exposing this person, she can go free. Her information will be forgotten.

She can be safe again. All she has to do is murder this person. Someone she never knew and likely never will know.

A.G.R.A. can finally die—Mary can survive.


	5. Chapter 5

_"Life asked Death,_

_'Why do people love me but hate you?'_

_Death responded,_

_'Because you are a beautiful lie and I am a painful truth.'"_

_-Unknown_

* * *

A glass of scotch sits on the desk in front of Mycroft. It is untouched. The light reflects off of it harshly, almost hitting Mycroft in the eyes.

"I am aware of the standings," Mycroft states, not even bothering to turn around to face Anthea. It's easier to stare at the glass, to look at something inanimate in the face of one of his few failures.

"There isn't much hope, sir," Anthea says, "I would start to make arrangements, sir…The last few acts you can take in office."

"I'm above that sort of pettiness," Mycroft snorts, taking his first swig of the whiskey. He gags slightly from the abruptness of the taste—it's not his usual drink of choice. But then again, neither is this his usual situation. He is used to being on top, to being the victor.

It's very rare that Mycroft finds himself beaten.

"I'll need to notify my brother about this," Mycroft muses, setting the glass down. Anthea steps forward into his line of sight, looking at him with an awkward smile of pity and understanding.

He grimaces and looks down at a few files. The next election won't occur for a few more years—by that time, the government could easily be in ruins. And yet, he knew it would most likely go on without him. The world hardly ever stopped turning. And it is almost most willing to show any given person how utterly insignificant they are—how imagined any semblance of importance is.

"Of course," Anthea says, straightening the files on the desk, "I'm certain, however, that we could take care of the matter in Swaziland before the election is complete."

"We could," Mycroft agrees, looking back down into his glass of whiskey. The alcohol seems to be staring up at him too, questioning his fall from power.

"This was all planned, Anthea," Mycroft starts, standing up from his desk, "He wanted this to happen. It's all a game—a game that he intends to play with me directly this time. And I won't force myself to play into his hand. No, no. Even without my power, I'll get back at him, I'll—"

He pauses. The words can come to him, yet they are empty. All of his confidence has been drained by such a simple defeat. From the very beginning, he knew this would be trouble—he knew that he would have to try to retain his post. Some people are inherently likable, something Mycroft had always understood.

It had never been easy to understand why he couldn't be one of those people. He is the ugly duckling, staring down in dismay at the world filled with goldfish. He can guide them, yet other than that, there is nothing he is able to accomplish.

"Sir?" Anthea questions, her phone uncharacteristically away. There are few things more urgent at this moment.

"Forget that," Mycroft mumbles, collapsing back down into his chair, "There's no point, now is there?"

She looks back at him, biting her lip. She doesn't have to say it. He already knows. He's Mycroft Holmes. He always knows.

* * *

Arwen sits by herself, playing with a doll that her mother had gotten her. It is beautiful, with colorful fabrics and dark, braided hair. It's name, as per her mother's suggestion, is Victim. She takes the doll with her most places when she is left all alone—for a small child, she has to be largely independent.

Nannies tended not to fare well with Arwen.

Her gum bubble pops, leaving the sticky residue all over her face. She giggles slightly, amused with herself, and attempts to pull it all off. Her efforts, although ineffective, are still rendered futile—someone is at the door.

Ordinarily, she would follow Irene's rule and refuse to answer the door. She wouldn't even go peer through the window. But as if moved by some force of genetics, her curiosity gets the best of her. It isn't all too often that a stranger comes to visit. And if they look dangerous, she decides, she can simply refuse to let them inside.

No one could get through a locked door in her mind.

She runs excitedly to the front door, with the energy of a puppy ready to meet a new person. Glass panes are on either side of the door, at the perfect height for the small child to gaze out of. No one is there.

"Huh?" Arwen mutters, craning her neck to get a better look of the world outside.

She claps her hands together in surprise, seeing a beautiful box waiting outside the door. It is black, with painted blue roses covering it. It is possibly the prettiest thing Arwen has ever seen in her short life. However, something else catches her attention—the person it's addressed to.

"That's me!" She exclaims, eagerly unlocking the door and grabbing the box. She almost forgets to slam the door behind her as she runs upstairs, heading for her room.

Irene is still nowhere to be seen.

Arwen leaps onto her bed, landing on it without any aspect of grace. The contents of the box slide around a bit, and she peers at it from every possible angle. It's a new game for her—to figure out what it is before she opens it. Her impatience gets to her quickly, though, and she decides to go ahead and open it anyways.

"I bet it's a present for me," Arwen grins, twitching slightly from hyper energy, "A very special gift…Like the ones they give in the stories."

She feels the box one last time, noting the smoothness of the box's texture. She then flips the brass latch of the box, lifting it up.

"Oww!" Arwen exclaims, catching her finger against something sharp.

The blood quickly flows out of the finger, and she stares at it, almost mesmerized. The entire world seems to sway around her, going blurry and then clear, over and over again. Her head pounds and seems to weigh a thousand pounds.

The entire world goes dark, as Arwen watches herself fall to the ground. Sounds seem sharp and painful—someone is entering the room. Someone is laughing. Someone is typing. And then, it all melts away. There is nothing.

_Sleeping Beauty_ is sitting open on the shelf.

* * *

Sherlock relaxes, sitting in a quaint bar in Washington State. The rainy weather and atmosphere is almost identical to that of London's, and as of such, it has become his home away from home. The people are rather liberal—with high minimum wage and recreational drugs. It's an oddity in the United States, yet much appreciated by Sherlock.

Well, as his name is currently, by Alex Fawley. The name is ordinary on one side, yet extraordinary on the other. It is enough to get him by most governmental security checks without the officers blinking an eye.

His new identity is rather fun to portray. Supposedly, his parents are immigrants from France. The foreign aspect is needed, in case he slips up and uses any European mannerisms. As far as employment goes, he manufactures marijuana—quite easy, given that he actually has a masters degree in Chemistry.

The table begins to vibrate—from his phone, clearly. Only two people call him on a regular basis—Lestrade and Mycroft. He slipped up last time, accidentally answering before checking. It could have been a disaster if Lestrade had been sober enough to realize what the call had meant.

"Have you done it?" Sherlock demands, looking around the bar for anyone who could potentially overhear. A few kids who used fake IDs are doing shots, but beyond them, the rest of the bar is filled with sorry alcoholics. No one to worry about is present.

"_No_."

"Why the hell haven't you done it?" Sherlock whispers angrily, clenching his hands slightly. The idea that someone had used his…_donation_…it was appalling. He knew when giving it that it was the intention all along—he simply never expected that someone would actually use it one day.

"_I am about to lose the election, Sherlock_."

There is no emotion in Mycroft's voice. He has given up, resigned to his fate—there is no point in fighting anymore. Realizing as much, Sherlock frowns, wondering if he should pity his brother or not.

Continuing to feel indifferent seems to be safer. Any feeling at all would instantly paralyze him, from fear of losing what little self-control he had struggled to obtain.

"I see," Sherlock mutters, staring at the grain of the table, "Very well then. I'll deal with matters myself…Somehow. I'll find a way. There's always a solution."

He hangs up the phone, letting the line go dead on Mycroft's end. He can tell when he's fibbing. There's no point in keeping up appearances.

* * *

Maggie sits happily in her chair, spinning around in circles. "I've done it!"

"You've done it?" John asks, his eyebrows raised. "So soon?"

"I took a break to marathon some Avatar," Maggie admits, brushing a spare piece of hair aside, "Otherwise, it would've been done sooner. Everything you need to know, though, is on this."

She tosses a flash drive to Lestrade, who catches it with shaking hands. His face is beaming, as he looks down at the success that will gain him the admiration of the Queen and his peers. It's so tiny, for such a significant impact. But even more importantly, one mystery would be solved—the possible would be done. Not everything would require the help of Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm going to give you a rundown, though, of what I found out," Maggie explains, spinning to face John. "Just in case you losers somehow end up corrupting those files. I won't judge. Well, that's a lie. I will judge. But, whatever, it's all good."

John shrugs, looking around the room again. There seem to be more merchandise than on the previous visit—a fact that seems hardly possible, given the short timespan. If Sherlock had been there, he would have prattled on about her spending habits and how Maggie motivated herself to get work done. He would have berated him about being rude, but secretly, he would have been amused. He would have laughed about it to himself and looked forward for the next time Sherlock would break social code.

"Well, go on," John instructs, rocking back slightly on his feet. His body is stiff, from his old army posture. He never had managed to kick the habit.

"The sperm donor's name is William," Maggie stated, clapping her hands together, "I can't remember the last name—it was weird. Don't worry, though. It's all on there. Anyways, he was a college student at the time, I think. Hasn't made another donation in a few years. Only one person has ever taken out his sperm for use and been successful."

She continues on, talking about various ways that she had to try to get the files. At the end of it, the explanation amounts to this: Maggie has no idea who used the sperm. The sperm donor's identity, however, is complete. By tomorrow, Lestrade, John, and Donovan can be chatting with him over coffee. Everything about him is included, from his name to the university that he attended.

"This is great, Maggie!" Lestrade grins, "We'll see about getting you on that show pronto…"

"I want a great part," Maggie reminds him, spinning around in her chair again, "My services are highly sought out after. You could call me the consulting hacker, you know."

"We know," John confirms, handing Maggie a twenty pound note, "Take this, get yourself another Doctor Who mug or something to tide you over until we can get you onto that show."

Maggie frowns slightly at first, yet perks up again. The money disappears into her pocket, yet the slight annoyance is still clear. The fee that John gave her is dramatically under what her services are worth. And yet, at the same time, the idea of getting herself a new piece of merchandise seems to calm her chaotic soul.

"I expect to be getting a call from the director within the week," Maggie adds sternly, "Don't think you can get off by just giving me twenty quid!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Lestrade reassures her, giving her a rough clap on the back. He leaves the room quickly, with John following behind him slowly.

Tightening suddenly, John gasps, grasping at his leg. It seems unable to move, as if it had instantly become useless. The pain shoots up through him as he forces it to bend, making him whimper as he limps his way out of the house. Lestrade kindly pretends not to notice, and for that, John is incredibly grateful.

* * *

It is a cold and lonely night. Each person's breath is visible, a sad cloud of nothingness floating away from them. Moran shoulders his rifle, staring at the cloud-like smoke in front of him with childlike fascination.

His job is an interesting one—not a moral one, however. He got into this line of work many years prior, after the army failed to meet his expectations. Or, rather, it was something about a court marshal—he preferred to tell people the former version. It sounds better, although Jim enjoys the idea that Moran is ruthless and untamable.

The orders are simple—eliminate the target and the evidence. The files already had been sent—it would require a second trip. Fortunately for him, Detective Inspector Lestrade doesn't seem to bother all too much with security. He's in the house quickly, climbing through the window and listening for the hum of a computer. The room is just down the hall, long with aged photographs of a happier time on the wall.

"Bingo," Moran whispers, fingering the flash drive that Maggie had given Lestrade and John earlier that day. He pockets it, before creeping out of the window with the softest of sounds.

The trip Maggie's apartment is, quite possibly, the shortest length of Moran's journey. Jim's private car can only take him so far—half of the distance he spends jumping from building to building. If he closes his eyes, Moran can imagine himself as a superhero—someone in a colorful outfit out to save the day, rather than on a mission to bring more darkness into the world.

People usually think they're clever to hide a spare key outside of their apartment. Moran prides himself on being able to find these keys—it takes him only a minute to find Maggie's. It's decorated with what looks to be Elvish script—Maggie must be a nerd, he reasons.

The key slides into the lock smoothly, opening up the apartment for him. The gun he has selected for this task has a silencer on it, preventing anyone else from hearing the sounds of death and destruction. It's best to avoid altering the police in these types of matters.

"Hello," Moran calls out, grinning slightly to himself. Every so often, he'll mess with the minds of the victims before he finds them.

There is no reply. He can, however, hear distant sounds of movement. A blanket falls to the ground—a door swings shut. His prey is awake. Perhaps, she is even aware of his presence. All the better, he decides. It's more entertaining this way.

A song starts to play softly, coming from the very same room. Moran stalks forward, his hand on the trigger of his gun. His heartbeat begins to accelerate slightly, as his body awakens to the thrill. Nothing else could make him feel alive like this—sex and alcohol both bored him.

"_I'm not a gangster tonight,_

_Don't wanna be a bad guy,_

_I'm just a loner baby,_

_And now you've gotten in my way."_

The volume increases dramatically as he walks forward. He grins, realizing the beautiful perfection behind the song. Jim is obsessed with the Scissor Sisters—_I Can't Decide_ happened to be one of his favorites. And of course, music always made any crime better. It is practically scientific truth.

"I can't decide, whether you should live or die!" Moran sings along, kicking open the door. A girl is fast asleep on the bed, her hand halfway covering her phone. A few notifications are begging for her attention, and it also seems to be the source of the music.

He glances down at her one last time, aiming his gun at her head. She turns over softly in her sleep, completely oblivious to everything that is happening around her.

Just the way it should be, Moran thought. He pulls the trigger quickly, without any hesitation or feelings of remorse. Most would expect him to have some sort of revelation about innocence or about life—to learn some sort of deep and horrendous lesson.

Moran realizes nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

"_Pretty words are not always true,_

_And true words are not always pretty."_

-Unknown

* * *

Lestrade strolls into the small café and spots a nervous John Watson in the corner. His jumper and flannel combo, as always, helps to set him apart from the rest of the patrons. Had he been standing, his short stature would have also helped—not that Lestrade would ever admit that he too used John's height to help him find him.

"So, what's this all about?" Lestrade asks, sliding into the seat next to John.

Two cups of coffee sit in front of them. John's is already halfway gone, while Lestrade's is cold. He must have been waiting for him to arrive for a decent bit of time, he realizes. There are dark marks underneath John's eyes, and he looks around as if questioning the world.

"Is this about the case?" Lestrade nods, lowering his voice to a whisper. No one in the café pays too much attention to the duo, but still, he can't help but take the precaution.

"No," John chuckles, "It's…It's about a personal matter. Bloke to bloke advice."

"Oh?" Lestrade raises his eyebrows, taking a swig of the coffee. "Who's the other bloke, then?"

John swears, yet there's a weary smile on his face. It fills Lestrade with internal relief, seeing some glimmer of happiness on his friend's face. Heaven knows it's been a while since John even managed to smile.

"I told you about my girlfriend, right?" John shakes his head once again, laughing quietly to himself.

"Oh, let me guess!" Lestrade's grin widens, "Your girlfriend is becoming a bloke!"

"Oh, give it a rest," John retorts, cursing again under his breath, "She is…unbelievably hot and…intelligent and funny and kind and….Just somehow, somehow, she thinks I am also—"

"An escaped hobbit," Lestrade finishes.

John's tired eyes have a slight glow in them. It's no wonder that everyone assumes he's gay. But really, Lestrade never could imagine that Sherlock and John were boyfriends—it seemed to silly of a label. Perhaps they were lovers, perhaps they were best friends. They were something, at least.

Not even John Watson is sure what that something was.

"Oh, of course," John sighs, "At any rate, I'm thinking about…asking her to marry me. I know it's a little soon, so…I figured I would chat it over with you."

"I'm an expert, clearly, on marriage," Lestrade laughs, with a wince of pain on the inside, "Been through the whole process. Engagement, honeymoon, marriage, and divorce papers."

Embarrassment spreads itself across John's face. He clearly hadn't thought it through. It doesn't bother Lestrade all too much though. Somewhere along the line, he had forgotten the pain that drove him to drink. Drinking had become second nature, just like breathing—it was something that he did to stay alive and nothing more than that. The word _alcoholic _crosses his mind every now and then, yet it didn't seem to describe it properly.

It isn't an addiction for him—it's sanity.

"Am I rushing into this?" John asks, his face slowly revealing more and more genuine emotions. A few of them flash across it—fear, love, happiness, horror, and remorse. It's too fast and complicated for Lestrade to make out.

Most assume that emotions can be boiled down into one thing—that sadness and happiness can be separated. From years of solving crimes and meddling with people's lives, Lestrade knows that it is exactly the opposite. Happiness and sadness are one entity with two separate names.

Lestrade pauses, "I can't tell you that, mate. There's only one person who knows when it's right to do something and that's you. Well, Mary too, really. But there isn't some sort of…path of when it's proper to do something and when it isn't."

"That sounds…very nice, yet completely avoids the question," John frowns, searching for something distinct, for something black and white. "Come on, there's got to be a moment when I'm rushing things, right? I'm rushing things, now, aren't I? I should wait."

"I don't think you are," Lestrade chuckles, before sighing again, "If anything, you're more just nervous…But I think, and don't let this influence you at all, that maybe you _are_ ready to do this, to be married."

"You know that's going to influence me, don't you?" John grins a bit, "You'll be my best man, of course."

John Watson's best man? The title is odd, as if made for someone else. Lestrade knows exactly who else it fits—someone he may never see nor talk to again. Someone who is supposedly rotting, six feet under, and yet managed to answer the phone.

John's limp stops him from bringing this up. He swears himself into continued secrecy. John Watson deserves some moments of happiness.

"I'd be honored," Lestrade replies, his mouth as dry as cotton, "You're a great best mate, John."

John nods in turn, before steering the conversation back to all of the little details. He goes on and on about how amazing Mary is, and how she managed to keep him from going on a rather dark path. Lestrade says what is expected of him, with the guilt swirling in his heart. It almost succeeds in choking him, of making him weep from his own special punishment.

Knowledge isn't power—it's pain.

* * *

The call had cut his lunch with John short. It had turned the guilt in his heart into terror and pure shock. It had ruined him. Every motion he had made on the trip to the scene of the crime felt surreal, as if it was all a terrible nightmare bending around him. It's not often that he is personally acquainted with the victim—they have policies to avoid that.

But according to official records, Lestrade and Maggie never met. She never assisted in a case. Outside aid is frowned upon, especially after the fiasco with Sherlock. It's hardly approved even with evidence coming to light that vindicates the fallen detective.

In the back of his mind, he can still hear the click of connection on the phone, and the slight hint of a breath. Had he imagined it all? Had it never truly happened?

"Margaret Cassandra Alvey," Donovan states with an aura of indifference, staring down at Maggie's limp body. Blood has pooled around a bullet wound. The bullet managed to cleanly exit her skull. There is a slight sign of struggle in the house, yet not enough to find any real clues.

"She was some sort of computer expert," Lestrade responds, attempting to reign in his own personal feelings.

"I'll get ballistics on this," Donovan nods, the crime scene photograph accenting her words with each snap of the camera.

"Hold on, boss, we found something!" An overly enthusiastic forensic technician calls out, practically skipping into the room. In her hand is a service gun, small, most likely a nine millimeter. Lestrade pales in recognition of the gun.

"What is it?" Donovan asks, looking at Lestrade with concern.

He swallows with difficulty. "I've seen that gun—that's John Watson's gun."

The words are out before he has time to even begin to think. He always wondered what he would do in a situation like this—where he finds evidence that his friend has committed a crime. Now he knows exactly what he would do—he would do his job.

He would find the truth.

"I'll get a report in, see if it matches the bullet," Donovan soothes, seeing the tension slowly filling Lestrade up. "Look for fingerprints too—maybe it was just stolen, doesn't mean much."

The technician looks around awkwardly, as if wondering what she just walked into. Her hair is braided back, and there's a morbid innocence about her—for whatever reason, she reminds Lestrade of Addy Snell. Her hair is dark with bright roots—a not so subtle contrast.

"We've been through this before, boss," Donovan adds, "We won't let him die like Sherlock."

The name cuts through him like a knife. He flinches internally, nodding with an aura of forced calm. "Sure we won't."

* * *

The knock on the door is hard and fast. There is little patience to it. With the booming thuds, John easily could have imagined himself back in Afghanistan, never knowing whether he would live or die that very day. He sits up slowly, hearing more thunderous pounding on the door. His heartbeat accelerates, yet his hands are perfectly steady—the fight has already begun inside himself.

He opens the door just as another blow falls, causing it to swing open violently. Three police cars are parked outside his apartment, blocking any possible way for him to escape. Men in uniforms have him surrounded, with guns and riot shields.

He cannot see their eyes—they are faceless, less than human. They are mere pawns on a gigantic board of chess, ready to take down the knight.

"John Watson?" a cold voice asks, ringing harshly in the bitter evening air.

John nods, instinctively reaching into his back pocket for his gun—it's gone. Surprise spreads across his face as he is roughly grabbed, with cuffs clicking around his hands with mechanic ease.

"You're under arrest," a female voice informs him, with slight tints of pity. "You are under arrest for the murder of Margaret Cassandra Alvey."

"Maggie?" John blurts, staring around at the crowd that has begun to gather on the sidewalk. Some officers are shooing them away, yet they steadily keep on coming, forming a circle to gawk and stare at the army doctor.

The officers ignore him, turning him in the direction of the police car. The manhandling leaves bruises and scratches on him, yet he pays no regard. Dimly, John is aware that his rights are being read to him, that they are pushing him inside of the police car without any sign of care or respect.

The female officer closes the door on him, the sound of it shocking him out of his surreal state. His mind frantically goes through a list of names—anyone he knows who could possibly act as a lawyer.

Mycroft.

Mycroft had to have a law degree, he realizes!

"I want to see my lawyer!" John shouts, a bit more hostile than he expected.

The officers remain silent, as if uncertain as how to proceed. They exchange glances and pull the car away, heading towards the lonely police station. It feels like several moments before they reply, informing him that he may call his lawyer when at the station.

Somewhere, somewhere, there is now a photograph of John Watson, murder suspect, being taken in for questioning.

* * *

The results are in. The celebrations have started. Somewhere, a group of people is toasting the newly elected official, celebrating the start of an illustrious career. They may be talking about how odd it is that someone took out Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps they even mention that Mycroft is a constant in the British Government. They may remark that now that constant is gone, allowing a new era to begin in politics.

Yet none of these people are here.

None of these people are sitting at an empty table, staring at the same glass of whiskey and the same bottle of scotch. Empty bottles are on the floor, next to wrappers of various sweets—something to keep his mind off of the stress of the election. Mycroft Holmes has never lost.

Now he has.

Anthea left a little while ago, in an attempt to clean up the mess to come. Of all the people to replace Mycroft, this person is the most qualified for the job. It is for that reason however that they are afraid. The identity of this character is known to only them—spreading it could mean almost certain death.

Yet keeping the secret? That could spell doom for the entire nation.

His phone buzzes, and with a quick glance, he deciphers the number. It's a call from the police station—how quaint. Mycroft frowns, before answering it reluctantly. It's not exactly his favorite activity, dealing with the mundane. Especially not now, not on this night of all nights.

"_Mycroft_," John's voice begins frantically, _"I need a lawyer."_

Ah, yes, it's John Watson. He frowns, wondering what trouble his brother's lover had gotten himself into. Well, not that either of them would admit what they were, yet Mycroft knew. He always knew.

"What for?" he asks, his voice filled with a pompous air. "What could you possibly need a lawyer for, John?"

"_They think I murdered Maggie Alvey!"_

Margaret Cassandra Alvey…Mycroft pauses, mentally recalling everything he knew about the girl. It isn't her real name—he knows that much. She does, well, did, a sort of underground hacking service. It never does much harm, and so, they had been rather lenient on it.

They never were able to find enough evidence to prosecute her, either. But it is besides the point.

"What on Earth…Oh," Mycroft frowns, as if a bad taste has entered his mouth, "I assume you're being framed, then."

"_We visited her for the Addy Snell case and—""_

Mycroft waves his hand to cut John off, as if John could actually hear him. "I understand. It's quite a pickle you're in, John."

"_Will you be my lawyer?"_ John presses, the anger and tension palpable through the phone.

Mycroft nods absentmindedly, "Yes, of course. I'd do anything for my little brother's friend. Now, I must go—I have some packing to do. As I'm sure you're aware, I no longer hold a post in the British Government. Good day, John. Try not to get convicted with anymore murders before I see you next."

Before John can protest, Mycroft ends the call. He can only imagine how John feels, trapped in a cell for hours on end for a crime he did not commit. The nightmares and flashbacks would be brutal that night for him.

He could hardly find it within himself to care more than a vague discomfort. Despite his campaign slogans and answers to the press, he is unable to identify feelings within himself. It doesn't make him any better or worse of a person, of course—he took comfort in that.

It hardly makes him a person at all.

* * *

After living in his dingy flat for years, Sherlock has become accustomed to mess. He keeps most of the motel rooms he occupies in a similar manner—organized chaos, if you will. Various notes are strewn around the room, mixed in with dirty laundry and half eaten containers of takeout.

Anything new is noted instantly, such as the small colony of flies that have become his roommates in the last few days. He doesn't mind them very much—they're excellent for the occasional experiment.

What does interest him and drive him on edge, however, arrived at exactly 2:21 AM. A tab for the occurrence has already been constructed within his mind palace, with each potentially relevant detail being added.

The event itself, of course, is simple: a letter was delivered. It was slid underneath the crack in the door, allowing the person almost complete anonymity. There are no traces of fingerprints on it. Clearly, it's a professional of some sorts—some criminal, no doubt.

The envelope is made out of parchment, the type children use when pretending they live in a fairytale land. The creases are smooth and clinical, made by skilled fingers.

Once opened, the letter becomes slightly more interesting. It is written with a flowing script, from a purple fountain pen. The writing is beautiful and extravagant, yet gives little clue to the author. It could have been printed by a computer and look exactly the same—there are no mistakes, no odd and misshapen letters.

Everything is perfect—a clue within itself.

And only now does Sherlock allow himself to ponder the actual message. It is very simple and rather short, with the type of insanity that makes for a decent case. The Alice Killings come to mind—the killer's calling cards were playing cards, with _Alice_ written on them all. The few notes he left behind in addition asked strange questions, with some referencing the fable.

This letter, however, reads as follows:

_Dear Sir William Sherlock Scott Holmes,_

_ I have taken something unknown and precious to you. _

_ It is so beautiful, and innocent, and sweet. _

_ It is hard to believe that it came from you!_

_ But if you wish for this thing to stay awake,_

_ And not fall prey to never-ending sleep…_

_ We'll be in touch._

_ Don't all little princesses need a knight?_


	7. Chapter 7

"_Deceiving others,_

_That is what the world calls a romance"_

_-Oscar Wilde_

* * *

A guard appears, rapping on the door to wake John up. He hasn't slept all night—the night terrors keep him awake, in a reality that is somehow worse than the nightmares themselves. At least in his nightmares, Sherlock is not dead. He's alive, out there somewhere, and in grave peril. Nothing is able to stop his friend's suffering—he's forced to watch, to sit with the burden of knowing, and waste away to the sound of his heart slowly beating.

"You've got visitors, Watson," the guard announces gruffly, stepping aside to allow John to pass.

Glancing around at the lonely cell again, John sighs and rises to his feet. The judge ruled yesterday that he is to be held without bail—he has nothing to do but sit and think until the trial begins. His skin itches with restlessness, and part of him is out looking for trouble, for danger, for excitement.

"Who?" John asks, picking slightly at the bland prison uniform.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan," the guard replies, being unusually courteous—the guards generally fail to treat them as human beings.

He leads John into a small room, dimly lit with four concrete walls. A mirror is placed on one of the walls, and from a glance, John is almost positive it's a two way mirror—Sherlock would have known how to tell, of course. Sherlock would have known how to avoid this situation—he always knew things when John was lost and confused.

"John," Lestrade smiles tiredly, setting a file down on the table, "We've got to talk."

"Did you find out the name of the sperm donor? The one who resulted in Addy Snell?" John presses, leaning forward as much as the handcuffs restraining him to the table would allow.

Donovan nods, "After Maggie's murder, we found someone had tampered with the files. I managed to undo the corruption on some of it…"

"The name?" John pushes, not wanting to wait for all of the explanations. He doesn't care how she did it.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Donovan breathes heavily, clutching the table slightly, "Addy Snell is Sherlock Holmes' daughter."

John breathes in tightly, the images beginning to swim in front of him. If he had any energy left in him, he would have laughed at the idea of Sherlock being a father. What would it be like, to have Sherlock Holmes for your father? What type of twisted individual would you grow up to be?

"Sherlock?" John shakes his head, "Please. He'd never donate sperm—""

Donovan and Lestrade look at each other quietly. Donovan frowns a bit, as if deciding to drop the subject, yet knowing that it still had to be raised.

"There's a reason that some…individuals…will donate sperm, John," Donovan cautions, "You get some…Well, some monetary gain from it—"

"We know nothing for sure though, John," Lestrade rushes, before John has time to put two and two together. "But as it stands…We're not sure if the case is something that you can go through with."

John winces, as if he mentally regained a limp as well. He nods, understanding their caution. He hates them for it, likening himself to _Crime and Punishment's_ Raskolnikov—at least he never killed an old woman with an axe.

"I'm fine," John smiles gruffly, "I'm always fine. I'll find this little girl…Sherlock's…Sherlock's kid. Maybe I'll…"

His voice goes dead. Would he take her in? Would he raise this child as his own? And what else would he find out about Sherlock? He never knew that Sherlock had a child—what else did he not know about his mysterious…roommate? Lover? Friend?

He doesn't know.

* * *

The courtroom appears to be almost identical to the one Moriarty's trial was held in—perhaps it is the same one, John considers. All of the judges in the world look the same to him, with the same powdered wigs and the same disapproving frowns. Even the jury members could have been the same for all he remembered.

No, they couldn't be the same, he realized. Sherlock is not here to insult them. Sherlock is not here to talk about how two of them are quietly having an affair, with each other. He isn't there to point out the overzealous Christian who is hiding so deep in the closet that they found Narnia. Silence rules the room, with meaningless murmurs fluttering like moths.

Of course, the barrister is different this time around. Mycroft Holmes steps in, wearing a smart black robe and a tidy powdered wig. He slides smoothly into position, ready to plead the defense's case—_John's_ case. There is no emotion in Mycroft's face, yet dark circles outline his eyes. He hasn't slept in ages. It could be days, perhaps even a week—John cannot tell.

No one ever knew anything Mycroft Holmes didn't want them to. He keeps his secrets to himself, a whispering web of invisibility that surrounds him at all times.

The judge walks in, and everyone in the room rises. A few journalists are there, snapping their cameras frequently, trying to get a good scoop. John's fame from being Sherlock's sidekick has not worn off—being on trial for murder only increased it. After the charges are read off, the trial is declared to be fully in session.

The prosecution, a wheezing man in his thirties, begins to read off all of the charges. He goes on about John's background in the army, embellishing bits and pieces, before calling John Watson himself to the stand. John stands up wearily, his limbs stiff, and he takes his place at the stand—his limp has vanished.

"Mr. Watson, can you identify this gun?" the prosecution demands, coughing slightly on the last word.

John nods, feeling the phantom of Sherlock behind him. As if Sherlock is driving him to speak, he opens his mouth, "Yes, I can identify it."

The prosecution frowns; the phantom Sherlock chuckles. "Would you please be so kind as to inform us who this gun belongs to?"

"The British Army," John replies calmly, his hands completely steady, "It's illegal for civilians to own guns."

He catches Mycroft's eyes—a smirk of approval rings in them, yet he slowly shakes his head. John decides to ignore it.

"Have you seen this gun before, Mr. Watson?" the prosecution tries again, looking slightly desperate.

John simply nods, debating whether or not to lie. Perjury is a serious crime, after all. "I've seen that gun before."

"Where, Mr. Watson, if you can recall?"

"In my days in the army, doing service," John says smoothly.

Mycroft nods at him in approval, standing up and staring at the judge. He sighs, as if the task is far too much effort, "Your honor, it's been established that my client used a gun in the army. Please have them make a point or move on—it's a waste of time."

The judge, an old friend of Mycroft's, nods obligingly. John could see Sherlock prattle on and on about all of the people who owed Mycroft favors, even now in his fall.

The prosecution grumbles, before backing off. Mycroft grins, waltzing forward like a serpent, ready to bring down its foe. He looks at John briefly, before launching such an eloquent argument that no one could deny it.

"There is no evidence that this gun has ever been owned by John Watson," Mycroft states coolly, "The only word is that of a Detective Inspector who recently went through divorce. He is an alcoholic. There are several guns that look like that. John Watson is a model citizen. He should be treated as such."

The judge eyes Mycroft, too afraid to reprimand him for making a speech out of order. Mycroft doesn't care. He's in charge, right where he should be. The jury is staring at him greedily, devouring each and every single word.

"There is no connection between John Watson and this murder. I move for this case to be dismissed."

There is a pause, before the judge nods, hitting his gamble resolutely against the podium.

"Case dismissed," the judge mumbles, his face white from fright. He retreats within seconds, running from the once again powerless Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

In a remote building, far away from respectable civilization, there once was a corpse. This corpse was special, unlike any other—it was dressed completely in pink! From the umbrella to the shoes to the nails, every possible color was the same. It had to be that way, for the corpse's former career.

The corpse spent a few hours on the top floor of this building, staring down into the rotting floorboards, and spying on the drug deals occurring below. It is a house of secrets, a house of crime, a house where no one speaks of what happens. This corpse was left here, with a little note as an attempt to break the silence, to find some justice.

Of course, this corpse is long gone from now. Instead of this pink corpse on the top floor, there is now another body. This body still breaths, tiny little breathes, fleeting breathes, yet breaths all the same. Its cheeks have become rosy and flushed, with sweat dripping down its face. Perfect like curls and perfect little braids lay neglected.

A note is placed next to this body, too—it identifies the little child, so small and so weak. She does not wake. She does not move. She simply stays on the floor, the same bit of floor as the pink corpse, and she waits.

She waits for someone to notice her, for someone to come. She waits for someone to love her, for someone to truly care—yet there is no one. No one is coming to rescue this little girl, this unfortunate child. Trapped in sleep, her breaths become more pained, as she slowly loses her fight. At most, this little creature has a week. A week before her sleep will never end.

No one is coming for this little princess. She appears out of air and vanishes all of the same, without the smallest trace being left behind. She comes from greed and desperation, from ephemeral passions and ideas. And just like the reasons for her creation, she too will fade, and slip away.

No one will miss this little Sleeping Beauty.

* * *

Donovan and Lestrade grin, as John checks out his personal belongings. He slides them all back into his pockets, and he glances behind him, seeing Mycroft slowly vanish.

"Excuse me," John begins, before setting off with a dash towards Mycroft. He has forgotten his cane—it doesn't matter to him anymore.

He doesn't realize it at first, but Lestrade and Donovan chase after him. After some shoving and awkward maneuvering through the crowd, they manage to catch up to Mycroft. He is standing in line for the loo, looking strange in such an ordinary setting. Sometimes, they forget that Mycroft, too, is human.

"What is it?" Mycroft frowns, gazing at the three of them. "What could you three possibly want?"

John chuckles a bit, realizing that the odds that Mycroft hasn't guessed his intention already is low at best. The question is merely to buy time, to calculate—to get a few more precious seconds to compose himself. It isn't really a question. It's filler. It's meaninglessness.

"I just wanted to know, how you've been getting along with donating sperm," John blurts, with candidness that he had not intended on.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, "I beg your pardon?"

John nods, pulling Mycroft from the queue. He takes him to a staircase, which is surprisingly deserted. Lestrade and Donovan stand behind him, as if he is the leader in their gang of troublesome kids who are up to no good.

"You know, we saw you at the sperm bank the other day," John elaborates, "Surely, you must have been dropping off a donation or two. I don't fancy to understand how people can though, I wouldn't be able to get off their myself…"

Mycroft's jaw hits the floor—for once, someone has genuinely surprised him. Flabbergasted, he tries to compose himself, though shudders at the very suggestion that he, Mycroft Holmes, would donate sperm. The very thought of walking into a tiny room there and…No. It's unfathomable.

"I wasn't doing anything of the sort there," Mycroft objects, "I was merely…checking out some paperwork. Official business."

It's Donovan's turn to chuckle. She smiles, tossing her hair back slightly, and looks at Mycroft cheekily. "What sort of official business could you possibly have at a place where they pay you to jack off for money, eh?"

Lestrade snorts, burying his face into his hands. It's funny, how the most serious investigations can succumb to this. Perhaps it's human, to make light in the darkest of times.

"We have a pretty good idea of why you were there," John states, suddenly feeling hollow and dark. The weight of the world falls down onto him, nearly crushing him. The limp returns, and he whimpers a bit, propping himself up against the wall. Lestrade pretends not to notice, out of pity.

"Sherlock used to go to sperm banks," Donovan says, taking over for John. "He made a donation and now someone's used it."

Mycroft nods a bit, as if wondering how to spin it. "You must understand, my brother was in a dark place. He would do almost anything for money…"

"We know," Lestrade cut him off, throwing a glance over at John, who remains stonily silent, "We know all about that. What we need to know is who used his sperm."

"Isn't that always the question?" Mycroft smiles spitefully, twirling his umbrella slightly, "Who?"

The smile doesn't reach his eyes, yet it reaches his soul.

"Isn't that what we pay you to answer for us, Gregory?" Mycroft states slyly, setting his umbrella at rest, "To tell us who?"

The trio stares at him, filling the air with uncertain silence. Mycroft frowns, as if remembering that not everyone is as flamboyant and as intelligent as he is. He gazes around, regarding them as little more than goldfish.

"I haven't the faintest idea who," he admits, his voice down to a whisper, "You are not to repeat this to anyone. You have no idea the mess I'd be in if…"

He trails off, as if realizing that political messes are a thing of the past. He has no reason to worry anymore about his reputation. No one cares about Mycroft Holmes—he isn't important. He holds no power. He is faceless, no more important or noteworthy than dust. He's been reduced to yesterday's rubbish. Only historians and archaeologists will have interest in him now.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Lestrade asks, genuinely baffled, "You're Mycroft Holmes! You know bloody everything about bloody everyone! I wouldn't be surprised if you had cameras on all of us at every bloody moment of the bloody day!"

Mycroft smiles slightly, as if Lestrade had just complimented him. Perhaps he had. He bows slightly, picking up his umbrella to signal his exit. "I'll be in touch."

He disappears down the stairs, heading to some place, to some destination. It doesn't matter to them too much where he goes. The three of them look at each other, sighing heavily. The first break in their case, and already, they are lost. They are confused, staring into the void of time.

"We do know one thing, at least," Donovan mentions, "Sherlock Holmes is the father of the child. And someone doesn't want us to know that."

"It's enough to go off of, if we were Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade smiles ruefully.

John shakes his head, "If he can do it, so can we." He flashes a confident smile at each of them in turn, hoping to inspire them.

If only he could inspire himself.

* * *

Anthony Thompson sits in Mycroft's chair—in _his_ chair. He chuckles, concentrating on his accent—he mustn't slip, not even for a moment. It is already a miracle that Mycroft hadn't exposed him for who he is, for the wolf that would slaughter the sheep.

The room is magnificent, though he expected nothing less. Rich portraits, showing the strength and might of the British Nation decorate the office. The rich mahogany wood creates a calming sensation of might and power. He grins, kicking his feet up on the desk, smacking his gum.

He is expecting someone—he is expecting Irene Adler.

Chewing his gum, he listens to _Uptown Funk_ on loop, singing along to the songs. It's one thing he can never help, no matter who he pretends to be. He can crumple nations, but he cannot do it without a good tune.

"Am I disturbing something?" a cold voice calls out, filled with poisonous sweetness.

Anthony shakes his head, slowly taking his feet off the desk. He grabs a piece of candy and pops it into his mouth, taking in the beautiful woman before him.

Irene is dressed with elegance as always. Pregnancy has done nothing to hinder her figure—if anything, it improved it. Her curves are beautiful and her skin is fair, contrasting with the blood red shade of her lipstick. Everything about her is ready to cut, ready to pierce, ready to dominate.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Anthony greets with a sly wink.

Irene doesn't take any notice. She purses her lips, preferring to remain standing. "I trust everything is going to plan, of course?"

Anthony nods, spinning around in his chair. "Yes, yes. I've taken care of everything. The pigeon is in the nest."

Scowling, she blinks and continues, "Code doesn't suit you. But I must congratulate you, on your new position…Whatever it is. I never bothered to learn exactly what the Ice Man did."

"No one really knows," Anthony shrugs, finishing off his sweet, "Did you merely come here to torment me, is that it?"

Rolling her eyes with disgust, Irene pulls out her camera phone. "I'm simply being careful. It nearly failed last time—he nearly didn't come and save me, you know. I could have been beheaded for real."

"But you weren't."

"Yes, I wasn't." Irene pauses, looking at him pensively, "I don't pity him, strangely. I am a beautiful woman, but more than that, I have a brain."

Anthony winks, rising out of the chair. "And this way, we're going to have more power than we could ever imagine. More profit than we could ever dream of. We've come this far—let's not slip up now, alright?"

Irene chuckles, "I think I should be more worried about you slipping up."

She grins, slipping her camera phone away. Winking slightly at him, she leaves the office, but not before taking his bottle of scotch. He doesn't mind. It's not like he ever wanted for something.

All he wants is to stop being bored.


	8. Chapter 8

"_With a thousand lies,_

_And a good disguise, _

_Hit 'em right between the eyes,_

_Hit 'em right between the eyes, _

_When you walk away,_

_Nothing more to say,_

_See the lightning in your eyes,_

_See 'em running for their lives"_

_-The Offspring_

* * *

Lestrade had taken the odd group back to his house, which had been serving as a sort of headquarters. The immaculate counters gleam in the light, with dust covering some of the surfaces nearby.

"I'm a stranger to company," Lestrade explains with an odd chuckle, his mind flickering from thought to thought.

"S'alright," John says, knocking back another drink.

Donovan sips more delicately at hers, in an attempt to keep her mind clear. The boys, however, feel a need to drink away their troubles and their stress. The thick mystery refuses to become more probable, with hardly any clues.

"So we've got a kid," Donovan mumbles, taking a bigger gulp of her drink. She pauses for a moment, shudders slightly, and resumes her train of thought. "This kid's dad is Sherlock Holmes—something someone doesn't want us to know."

"The British Government personally wants us to get this kid back," Lestrade adds, setting down his own drink. "Heck, apparently the Bloody Queen demands it!"

John nods, thinking over all of the details. The words seem to swim in front of him, colliding with each other and bouncing away. He takes a deep breath, trying to imagine how Sherlock felt, each time he was confronted with a case. Perhaps, he can replicate the trick.

"If the Queen wants this kid back, then the kid is important to the Queen somehow," John mumbles. "Maybe a member of the Royal Family had a kid using Sherlock's sperm?"

Lestrade mulls it over for a moment, before shaking his head. The pit in John's stomach only grows, devastated at the first of many failures. The take in front of them grows more and more impossible by the minute.

"No," Lestrade says, launching into a counterargument, "The Queen would have known Addy Snell was a fake name from the start, if it was one of the Royal Family. We would have been given the real name."

"So the Queen doesn't know this kid," Donovan sighs, wiping some sweat from her brow. "Honestly, this is turning into a bit of a nightmare of a case…"

The others couldn't help but agree with her. John however grit his teeth, determined to make use of the new information. The mother, John decides, has to be a person of influence over the British Crown.

But the mother gave the wrong name—the mother doesn't want the child to be found?

Kicking Lestrade's counter, John lets out a sigh of anger. He could just imagine the phantom of Sherlock, swimming behind him, explaining that everything is so obvious. The imagined ridicule only increases his anger, and he curses violently, kicking the counter again.

Neither Lestrade nor Donovan react.

He huffs, trembling on the brink of realization.

"What if the mother didn't want us to know her kid was missing?" John blurts, hardly realizing what he said before he said it.

Lestrade looks at him, silent for a moment before breaking into a grin. "Hey!"

He claps him on the back, and Donovan's eyes begin to widen. "You know, that makes sense! The mother uses a fake name for her kid—for privacy or something like that."

"Then, she makes something happen to the kid," Lestrade continues, "Mycroft knows that the kid is missing."

"He's got connections to the Queen," John adds, feeling adrenaline flow throughout his body. His mood brightens, into a morbid euphoria, realizing that he had in fact done it. He did what he always thought only Sherlock capable of.

He almost solved a case.

"So Mycroft tells the Queen about this missing kid, makes it seem like a huge deal," Donovan says, sounding the theory out aloud. "The Queen goes along with it, starts getting everyone to search for the kid."

"But really, Mycroft mostly wants the kid found because it's his niece!" John grins, clapping Lestrade on the back and then going in to give Donovan a hug.

The three of them grin, ecstatic with their conclusion. However, the main mystery still alluded them—who used Sherlock's sperm? Who is this mystery woman? And where is Addy Snell?

The sinking realization that the girl could be dead as part of some political ploy dawns on the trio at almost the same exact time. The enthusiastic smiles are replaced with troubled frowns.

"Who?" Lestrade says, echoing Mycroft's question from earlier. "Who would take someone's sperm for blackmail?"

A face forms in front of me, shrouded with darkness. I try to put a name to it, but I am unable to. I know all too well who would try to do a game like that—but at the same time, I am dazed and confused.

The correct answer is the wrong answer; the wrong answer is the correct answer.

* * *

John creeps up the stairs of Baker Street, hoping that Mrs. Hudson won't hear him. His breathing is soft and quiet, barely disturbing the particles of dust that Sherlock held so dearly. He approaches the door to his old flat, opening it slowly.

It creeks open, unlocked.

Stepping inside, John finds himself overwhelmed with emotions. Snatches of conversations with his old friend flutter around his head, sending him spinning in circles. An enormous pain flares in his leg, causing him to collapse to the floor.

"Dammnit," John sighs, wincing as he attempts to put weight on his leg. It is no use—it's given out.

_Psychosomatic limp_, Sherlock's voice whispers softly from the darkness. John looks around, spotting only the phantom that haunts him constantly. He frowns, making his way over to Sherlock's desk. The clutter is extensive, but John knows the answer would be here somewhere.

"Come on, Sherlock," John mutters, shuffling through the papers. The scrawling font is like daggers, slowly dragging against his mind. He laughs softly, recalling that the brain is technically unable to feel pain.

It is something Sherlock would have said, he realized. He was all brain and no heart—John considers himself a fool sometimes for believing Sherlock could be more than just a great man. It was silly of him to have thought that Sherlock could have been a good one.

"You're kidding me," John fumes, tossing papers behind him. Eventually, the desk is bare, the freed dust particles spinning through the air.

It is not there. The wood of the desk stares up at him, with an insolence that could match Sherlock himself. John giggles a bit, looking down in misery.

"I've got to solve it all by myself," John mutters, collapsing down in his chair. The darkness of the flat is inviting, allowing his mind to drift and ponder.

Once again, he tries to be Sherlock. He tries to think of an individual who would use sperm to blackmail—to gain power.

Irene Adler comes to mind, her face looming out of the darkness, accompanied by the sounds of Sherlock's violin. She winks at him, her lips the only thing with a hint of color—blood. The rest of her is cloaked in darkness and she melts away.

"But she's dead," John says, reasoning to himself. "You can't just come back from the dead—Mycroft said she was dead, for pete's sake!"

_Mycroft doesn't know everything_, a voice whispered to him. _Mycroft didn't know who used Sherlock's sperm. _

Maybe Irene really is alive, John pondered, his chest feeling tight with the realization. It became harder and harder for him to breathe, as if ghosts were playing with his brain, whispering ideas into his ears.

"Irene Adler fakes her death," John mutters, "And she takes Sherlock's sperm. She doesn't want people to know she's alive, so there's no record that she's the mother…Mycroft doesn't know about any of this. But the child is used for blackmail."

"_I misbehave," _Irene's voice rang out through the darkness, though John knows it isn't real.

He stumbles to his feet, going into the kitchen for some water. He pulls out a glass, hoping that Sherlock hadn't done anything funny to it before he died. He fills it with water, halfway full, and begins to sip it slowly.

"Irene Adler is the mother of Sherlock's child," John says, speaking into the darkness of the flat.

He hopes to feel unsettled, to feel uncertain. The opposite happens—he becomes surer of it. He had eliminated the impossible. The improbable remains.

And the improbable is Irene Adler, who he thought to be dead.

* * *

"Alright, I had the boys doing overtime," Lestrade announces, sweeping into the room. His confidence is soaring as he stares at all of the records—tangible results.

John had called him late that evening, informing him that Irene Adler is the mother of the child. At Lestrade's insistence, the humble force of Scotland Yard scoured through records, looking for anyone who resembled Irene Adler in the slightest.

"If she's still alive," Donovan murmured, "And that's a big if, she'll be in here somewhere."

"Three cheers for the bureaucracy," Lestrade laughs, throwing off his coat and rubbing his hands together. "How long do you think this will take us, eh?"

"Few hours," John says, feeling strangely optimistic. Irene might be in one of these files, under a new identity, with a slightly new look to make her look different to the young office clerk.

But they would recognize her instantly—they had to.

The trio settles into work, making chitchat with each other as they go through the papers. Every now and then, a potential match is found—but alas, it is not so. Darkness floods into the room from the outside as the hours go by, and eventually, every folder has been examined.

"She's not in here, then," Lestrade sighs, his face pained.

Donovan nods dejectedly, throwing down the very last folder. "I thought for sure this would work, boss. That we were in for a break in this case at any moment."

"If we don't make much more progress than this…," Lestrade sighs heavily, "I hate to say it, but we can't just fail the Queen. She'd have our heads."

"Figuratively," Donovan interjects, "They outlawed beheading ages ago."

Lestrade chuckles, before glancing over at John. His face is pale and hollow, showing cheekbones that no one ever guessed existed. Slowly, John is beginning to look more and more like him.

_At what point do the emotions vanish too?_ Lestrade frowns.

"I'm sure we'll find another way," Lestrade offers, clapping John on the back.

He flinches, visibly pained at the contact. Words escape Lestrade and Donovan, watching John drown in front of them, unable to make a sound. Nothing could make a difference.

"Come on, we're going to find the kid," Lestrade tries to say, the words feeling like syrupy lies in his mouth. Donovan nods, squeezing John's shoulder.

It has little to no affect. John shrugs them off, walking away from them, and out the door. It closes behind him quietly, and they stand together in silence.

"He's hurting," Donovan says, a rare tear sliding down her cheek, "Gosh, I regret the day I ever called Sherlock a freak…"

"John needed Sherlock more than Sherlock needed John," Lestrade says, summing it up in rough eloquence. "I don't think Sherlock knew it, otherwise, he never would have left John."

The elephant in the room seems to be trampling Lestrade, while Donovan remains oblivious. She nods and follows suit after John, ready to hit the streets and try to find another means of solving the case.

Lestrade is left in the room, brimming in guilt. "Sherlock Holmes is alive," he whispers for the first time.

"Sherlock Holmes is very much alive," Lestrade repeats, as if it could patch John up and bring back the smiling man he had befriended so long ago.

* * *

It is the same script as before.

Sherlock stares at the package, disturbing the mess of his latest bed. The rooms in America are rather strange—the lack of security appalled him. The package seems to have appeared out of thin air.

"Who are you?" Sherlock ponders aloud, pulling out a magnifying glass. He examines the package, handling it with gloves, searching for some sort of clue.

It is completely spotless. He realizes he'll gain nothing this way, and he carefully tears the package open. A child's toy falls into his hands. Or at least, it once was a child's toy. The head has been removed, replaced with a small skull.

"Infant," Sherlock says, muttering as he handles the skull carefully. "European origin—female. Hasn't been dead long."

He sets down the doll, taking in the rest of its details. Its dressed in an odd princess gown, a beautiful little blue cloth that shimmers. In its hand, a piece of paper has been scrunched up.

Sherlock pulls it out gently, revealing the same flowing script as before:

_Meet us at the nearest college campus. You'll know it, won't you, Mr. Holmes?_

_If not, Sleeping Beauty may do far much more than simply fall asleep…._

His heart pangs oddly, looking down at the note. When he had donated his sperm, it had been for a simple reason: drug money. The reward had been modest and enough to support his habit, until he managed to obtain a source of income for himself.

It never crossed his mind before that someone might have used his sperm. He frowns, feeling uncomfortable with the feeling that a child of his exists.

He is a father.

The label feels foreign, and he shakes, assuring himself that he has no parental duty to any child created from his donation. If anything, the child should thank him for making its life possible.

"Her life," Sherlock corrected himself. No one is an it.

But regardless, by being his child and for that simple fact alone, she is in danger. Sherlock frowns again, troubled by his sense of responsibility. Does he owe anything to this child?

His eyes flicker down to the doll with the skull. Perhaps he would have a chance to mold a minion…Not that he ever wanted to.

"It's an interesting case," Sherlock says softly, giving himself the excuse he needs.

Caring, after all, is not an advantage.

* * *

"What's the rush, John?" Lestrade shouts, sprinting to meet up with his friend.

"I need your help," John stammers, his cheeks a deep shade of scarlet.

Lestrade grins, wiggling his eyebrows. Just from the color of John's face, it becomes obvious that this has something to do with Mary. The woman always unsettles Lestrade a little bit, but he pushes this aside. She makes John happy, and to him, that is good enough.

Lord knows what happened with the last one…

"Oh?" Lestrade says, rocking back slightly on his feet. "You're old enough to solicit someone on your own!"

John rolls his eyes, tempted to smack Lestrade. "You know very well what I need help with and it certainly isn't that!"

"You're going to spend a large sum on a woman," Lestrade says in a deadpan, trying to hold back laughter. He fails, his face becoming funnier than the joke itself. Soon enough, John is laughing along with him, grinning from ear to ear.

"Very funny, Greg," John smiles again. "I'm not sure how to go about this…"

"You're going to have to say it, John," Greg teases, "I'm still convinced we're talking about purchasing a good time with no questions asked."

"Oh, shove off," John groans. He musters as much of his courage as he can, "I'm going to ask Mary to marry me."

"I know," Lestrade butts in, grinning like the devil. "What else is new?"

"Help me pick out a ring," John stammers, smiling as cutely as he can. It sends Lestrade into another bout of laughter, but he manages to nod to John.

"Brilliant!" John exclaims, his face lighting up. "I figured this shop will do—don't you think?"

Lestrade nods, pushing John inside ahead of him. It's a rather fancy place, with jewels sitting in every cabinet. The employees are dressed smartly, helping elderly women with deep pockets pick out the latest ring for their collection. Soothing violin music plays over the speakers.

For a moment, Lestrade's mind flickers to Sherlock.

"Well, what do I do?" John asks, hesitant to ask the shop assistants for help.

"You've got to find something that just…screams Mary," Lestrade advises. He wanders over to a cabinet, dragging John along with him.

"What sort of things does she like?"

"I….I don't really know. She likes cats and walks and baking," John offers, his face turning red.

A small warning sign goes off in Lestrade's head, but he ignores it. John's probably just a bit nervous and forgetful—he could hardly blame him for it.

"Right," Lestrade nods, "Hm…Describe her to me. I want you to tell me what you love about her."

John pauses, as if Lestrade had asked him how many protons there were in a single atom of boron. A few moments pass awkwardly between the two of them, Lestrade being quite uncertain of what to do.

"She's just lovely," John answers lamely. "Whenever I need to talk, she's there for me. She makes me laugh and smile again."

Lestrade nods, as if this type of behavior is normal. The pit in his stomach widens rapidly, and he wonders if Mary really is a good idea. Surely, John knows something about the person he wants to marry?

"That's great," Lestrade praises limply. "Hmm…You know what. I've got an eye for jewelry."

He glances around, before a singular ring catches his eye. It isn't pure diamond, but he fancies John will like it. A bit nervously, he points it out to John.

"How about that one?" Lestrade asks.

"It's perfect!" John beams, causing Lestrade's heart to sink even further.

"Well, that's great," Lestrade lies, "Why don't you go purchase it for her? You've got her ring size, right?"

"Of course!" John laughs, motioning for a shop assistant. "She's going to love it. I look at it and….I feel myself falling in love with her all over again."

The jewel of the ring is almost the exact shade of Sherlock's eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

"_I think the greatest lie_

_the devil ever told was_

_that beauty_

_and greatness_

_are the same"_

_-Daniel Nayeri_

* * *

Sherlock steps off the bus, breathing in the brisk air. Washington is a lovely place, one that he can appreciate the beauty of, even if he cannot pretend to understand it. The University is grand, with students hustling about back and forth to their classes. A few of them look like they came from a Science-Fiction novel, sporting outlandish hair and similar outfits.

"How quaint," Sherlock murmurs, moving swiftly forward.

The package had instructed him to come to this place. The odds, Sherlock figures, of the meeting happening at this moment are slim. If anything, this would be an arrangement.

A young boy makes his way over, a large L emblazoned on his t-shirt. He hunches over, his dark hair hanging in his eyes. His skin is pale—he doesn't get out much, Sherlock says, starting to deduce the boy. In a single glance, he begins to unravel the boy's life story.

The sugar addiction is prominent, as well as an addiction to anything that could give him mental stimulus. The boy hails from England, though moved to Japan in his early years. Sherlock takes another look at the boy, seeing his loneliness and isolation.

He isn't whom Sherlock is here to meet—but he'll do.

"Mr. Holmes," the young man says, smiling emptily. "Name's Seamus."

"Pleasure to meet you, Seamus," Sherlock says coldly, his eyes flickering up and down the young boy. "I assume you're here to tell me I need to return to London to have this meeting."

Seamus shakes his head, his smile widening. "She has about a week left to live. We'll be waiting for you at the Dorchester."

Flashy London hotel. Features a French restaurant. Opened in the 1930s. Upscale clientele. The words flash through Sherlock's mind and he nods, annoying the pinpricks of fear from Seamus' words. It isn't in his nature to care.

Why start caring now?

"What time?" Sherlock asks, his words hovering in the air. No one seems to notice them, content to wander back and forth across campus.

He glances over Seamus again, adding a little note to his deductions: Chemistry major.

"Irrelevant," Seamus chuckles. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nods, noticing how short the young man is. Whoever is behind this must have groomed him, he realizes. He is destined for this sort of life—a life of criminals and danger. Once again, Sherlock finds himself staring into an oddly distorted mirror.

"I'm a huge fan of yours," Seamus adds. "I'm so glad you're not actually dead. Will you tell me how you did it?"

"Did what?" Sherlock responds naturally, feigning being completely oblivious.

It's the question everyone wants to know the answer to—but no one can. As far as the world is concerned, Sherlock Holmes fell to his death.

"Faked it," Seamus gushes, his eyes widening with excitement. The stimulus courses through his brain, causing everything about him to become elevated.

"I didn't," Sherlock shrugs.

Seamus' eyes shoot up, and Sherlock grins. He walks away, imagining that his coat collar is turned up. Everything around him is perfect, as if he is from an action film. Behind him, Seamus is no doubt gawking at his back, wondering if he had imagined him.

_Did you almost start to wonder if I was real?_

He shudders on the inside, straining to remain his composure. It is all complicated. His life never stopped being complicated. The echoing words ring back and forth through his mind, yet he doesn't see Moriarty's face. He sees John's. He sees John, broken and alone, not understanding why Sherlock jumped.

Perhaps, he might have considered himself to be Sherlock's friend. His heart jumps at the thought, but then he shoves it aside. He must not feel emotions…He must be above it all, like a spider.

_Did I nearly get you?_

Sherlock bites his lip, whisking himself away from the campus. The formerly bright and cheery scene has turned dark, dampened by the Seattle drizzle. He tries to shake off his worries and fears, to be as cold as his brother.

It shouldn't be too long for me to catch a plane, he reassures himself. His thoughts are random, and he tries to construct an image of what his child looks like. Would she resemble him? Would she be as intelligent as him?

"Don't get involved," Sherlock mutters, picturing Mycroft's berating face.

Nothing good could come from it.

* * *

Wearing a tuxedo, Sherlock enters the Dorchester. Many regard it to be the finest hotel in the world, a once in a lifetime experience. Fortunately for Sherlock, Mycroft's card should be sufficient to cover all of the expenses.

His brother never seemed to run out of funds.

Sherlock walks forward, with the maître-de approaching him quickly.

"Good evening, sir!" the young man, Sebastian, greets. His blonde hair is freshly touched up, and a few scares litter his hands. "We've been expecting you. Right this way, into the private room."

Sebastian guides Sherlock through the maze of tables, filled with the snobbish London elite. Scandals could erupt easily in this place, with so many high-powered officials. Not that Sherlock had bothered to learn their names, of course.

He wouldn't allow information Mycroft adored to litter up his brain.

"Here we are, sir," Sebastian says cordially, opening a door in the back. A small table with two chairs is set up, with food and wine already served. A man with balding hair and glasses, with constantly wet hands, sat waiting for him.

"Thank you, Sebastian," Mr. Magnussen said, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. "Send James my best."

Sebastian vanishes quickly, leaving Sherlock and Magnussen in the room alone together. Each of them are looking each other over, making deductions about everything and everything there is to know. Knowledge, after all, is the key.

The key to what? Sherlock asks himself, feeling troubled.

"Mr. Holmes!" Magnussen greets, offering a hand.

Sherlock simply sits down, refusing to shake it.

"It's been a while since we've seen each other," Magnussen grins. "Well, more a while since we both had the pleasure of being in the company of your brother."

Sherlock stares forward, unblinking. Magnussen, sensing that the chitchat will get nowhere, decides to change his tactics. He pours a glass of wine for Sherlock, setting it down in front of him.

"I don't drink," Sherlock says, refusing the glass.

"You never have," Magnussen corrects, taking a sip of his own glass. "Please, be so kind to oblige me and have a drink."

Sherlock hesitates, before realizing he isn't in much of a position to argue. Magnussen has the upper hand in the situation. And after a quick second glance, there's no reason to fear that the drink is poisoned.

He isn't that sort of criminal.

Sherlock takes a sip of the wine, trying not to gag at the taste of it. "You aren't the one who took my daughter, Magnussen."

He merely smiles, taking another drink of his wine. "No, I'm not. I'm merely here to negotiate with you on behalf of a client."

"Negotiate?" Sherlock snorts. "Whatever for?"

"It's a business deal. Your daughter's life is valuable."

"How valuable?"

"You tell me," Magnussen grins, helping himself to some of the bread. He ate it slowly, never losing eye contact with Sherlock. Sherlock, for his part, maintains his emotionless composure to the best of his ability.

He doesn't care about a child he hasn't met…Right?

"I don't care for this," Sherlock states, standing up from the table.

Magnussen seems unfazed, continuing to eat and drink. Sherlock could have died, and he wouldn't have been alarmed in the very slightest.

"I'm certain that you'll regret that choice," Magnussen says simply. "I'll let my client know of your decision. If you want to change your mind, don't bother to come looking. We'll find you."

Sherlock nods, leaving the room quickly. He pushes his way out of the restaurant, shoving aside politicians and millionaires without a second glance. By the time he has stepped outside of the restaurant, his mind is completely distracted.

He doesn't notice the sniper, perched directly across the street. Sherlock doesn't hear them place their finger on the trigger, adjusting their aim before pulling. The bullet flies through the air, striking him with anticlimactic grace.

Glancing down, in shock, Sherlock sees the red blossom on the white undershirt of his tuxedo. The pain isn't there yet. He stumbles forward, trying to go through the steps of how to survive a bullet wound. Fortunately, from the brief glance he had, it isn't near any vital organs.

"John…," Sherlock gasps, crashing to the ground. Everything around him warps into different shades and colors, before settling on darkness.

There is nothing.

* * *

"John, we've got an unidentified man, age thirty, with a bullet wound!" Cassie, one of the nurses, calls out frantically.

"I'm on it!" John says, rushing into the surgery room. After a few days of running around with Lestrade and Donovan, he couldn't beg off the surgery much longer. And here, in his element, he could have tangible success.

The patient is wheeled in on a gurney, his hair slicked back. Bandages and frantic hands from nurses cover him, so much so that John cannot see his face. The bullet wound is located in the stomach—extremely painful, but with a low risk of fatality.

"Right," John commands, "Let's get to work. Nurse, scalpel."

Cassie hands him the scalpel, checking in on the vitals of the patient. John delves into the work, first removing the bullet, and then stitching up the wound. The entire time, he neglects to even look at the patient's face.

"He's stabilized," Cassie announces, with a grin.

John doesn't respond, continuing to stitch up the wound. Eventually, it is closed, with the only blood left covering John's hands. He nods at the rest of his staff, allowing them to descend on the patient, giving him pain medications and estimating how long until he awakes.

Washing off his hands, John takes a moment to glance over his back. Cassie's blocking the patient mostly from view, helping the poor man with his oxygen tube. He spits it out, causing John to chuckle a bit.

"Alright there, mate?" John asks, trying to have a good bedside manner.

"I'm perfectly fine," the patient responds slowly, wincing as he attempts to get up.

John grins, remembering some of his favorite patients from over the years. The stubborn ones were always interesting, insisting that they were ready to do things they were in no shape to do. They gave John a challenge—and usually, they had a fine sense of humor.

"Sure, you were shot," John says, snapping off his gloves as he turns around, taking in his patient.

The blood is dried to his skin, and his hair has started to curl slightly. His skin is impossibly pale, with cheekbones so sharp John could cut himself on them just by staring.

The eyes though, they seem to be made out of the sky itself. Fear swim in them, and John cannot help but stare, feeling his heart start to slow. Tears spring forth from his eyes and he finds himself unable to breathe, unable to do more than stare.

"John!" Sherlock shouts, watching his friend slowly fall to the ground.

Cassie grabs John by the arm, supporting him. He is still unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare. If there were words for him to speak, he would have said them.

But there are no words for this.

"John, I can explain," Sherlock says, lazily pulling out his IV. "It's all rather simple."

John says nothing, as if he was frozen and made out of ice.

"John?" Sherlock asks hesitantly, waiting for a reaction from his dear friend.

John clenches his knuckles, feeling them turn white rapidly. He takes in a deep breath, finally remembering how to function. His head swims, images of Sherlock's battered head against the pavement.

_This phone call….It's my note._

He gasps again, hearing the sound of fire in Afghanistan. The bullet striking him in the shoulder hits him over and over again, with explosions and death surrounding him. Sherlock falls to the ground, shot by a Taliban shoulder. His eyes stare at John, unblinking with death.

_Goodbye, John. _

The pain in his shoulder spreads and he feels his leg give out, the sounding of explosions and violin music in the background. Vaguely, he is aware that someone is shaking him, that someone is calling his name and over and over again.

But it is all meaningless to him. All he can see is the endless desert, littered with corpses. Gunfire echoes in his ears, with more bullets striking him, over and over again with finality.

Eventually, Sherlock appears, bleeding out. John tries to run forward, to help him, but Sherlock pulls out a gun himself. He empties it into John's heart.

* * *

Mary sighs, sitting in the café all by herself. She hadn't gone into work that day—she had other important things to do. It seems that John had decided that as well.

He stood her up.

She taps her foot, glancing at her watch one more time. After giving up on her date showing up, she downs her drink and pulls out her mobile. A few texts have come in—nothing to be too concerned about.

However, there is a call that she needs to make.

"Cam," Mary says, once she hears the click of connection on the other side of the line.

"_What is it, Mary?"_ His voice sounds irritated, with the vague noise of a party in the background. Mary rolls her eyes. She is less than thrilled with her boss.

"The kid is still alive," Mary reports, glancing around the café to make sure John doesn't surprise her. Seeing no one, she feels confident to continue.

"_For how much longer? You heard my instructions and followed them, didn't you, you naughty girl?"_

She bites her tongue, tempted to give her boss the scolding he deserves. But at the thought of her reputation and her life being in jeopardy, she has no choice but to comply. "She has five days."

"_Five?"_

"Five." Mary frowns, getting more and more annoyed with her employer. A waitress comes over, motioning as to whether or not she can take her cup. Mary nods, waving her hand to indicate that she wants it all gone. She isn't in the mood for showing decent manners to the staff.

"_I need you to keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't die too soon._"

"Of course," Mary answers, "Is there anything else, Cam?"

"_Oh, nothing particularly. I'd just like to remind you that I know where everyone in the world who would love to rip your pretty little head off of its body lives. And in the next week or so, I'd like you to remember that."_

She snorts. "You act like I could possibly forget."

There's a pause, as if Magnussen is considering his next phase of action. Mary desperately wishes to hear him hang up, to be rid of him for now, until he gives her the next assignment. In order to be free, she has to be a slave.

"_I want to hear you say: "I am a fat, dimwitted, horrible little girl who no one could love, especially John Watson. He hates me."_

Mary sighs, and repeats the sentence slowly. She acts like it doesn't bother her to say it, but it does. Deep down, she knows that she doesn't deserve him. The rare stroke of luck that led her to John Watson would never happen again.

"He hates me," Mary finishes, a rare tear escaping from my eye.

Magnussen laughs, ending the call. Mary sighs in relief, collapsing back almost into her chair. Her heart is pumping faster and faster, as if Magnussen's torment is more than what it is.

"Pull yourself together, Mary," she mutters under her breath, leaving her payment for the drink on the table. "Only nice girls cry."

* * *

Anthony Thompson grins, his feet up on the desk. All of the pieces are falling perfectly into place, just as he envisioned.

"Oh, Anthea darling!" he jeers, waiting for his inherited assistant to come in. It had taken some convincing, but he managed to keep Anthea on. He always had loved the idea of getting an assistant—now he has one.

"Yes, sir?" Anthea asks, her brown eyes staring at him innocently.

"The Addy Snell case," he begins. "I want it shut down. Mark it as a closed case."

"But sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade has been making breaks in that case," Anthea pleads, walking further into the room, her heels clicking against the ground.

Anthony laughs, jumping on top of the desk. He stands at his full height, which only becomes impressive with the addition of the desk. Flicking his tongue slightly, he stares Anthea down, answering without words.

"I'll close the case, sir," Anthea resigns. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Demote Lestrade," Anthony murmurs, as if it were a second thought. "I don't like him—he thinks too much for an inspector!"

"…Demote him, sir?" Anthea repeats, her eyes widening with shock. Never before had she missed Mycroft this much. His actions were dramatic, yet reasonable. Anthony lacked any sort of reasoning.

"You heard me!" Anthony shouts, jumping off the desk and onto the ground. "Now go, or I'll make you into some sort of stew!"

"Stew?" Anthea questions, looking at her new employer fearfully.

He grins like a jack-o-lantern, his perfectly white teeth gleaming. Insanity flickers in his soft hazel eyes, reminding Anthea of just who this man once was. It is Mycroft's idea to keep his identity hidden.

"Understood, sir," Anthea mumbles softly, attempting to break his unwavering gaze.

"I like you," Anthony taunts, as Anthea leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.

He giggles, opening a bottle of wine, and beginning to drink it greedily. It isn't every day he gets to make someone's world come crashing down.

"Oh wait," he giggles to himself aloud. "It _is_ everyday!"


	10. Chapter 10

"_It is hard to believe_

_that a man is telling you the truth,_

_when you know you would lie if you were in his place"_

_-Henry Lewis Mencken_

* * *

Sherlock sits across the table from John, still dressed in his hospital gown. He folded his hands awkwardly in front of him, waiting for his former flat mate to begin speaking.

John, however, does not appear to wish to break the silence. He stares, his eyes haunted and filled with fury, at the man he mourned in front of him. He would wish all of the time that Sherlock would not be dead—he prayed to a god that he never believed in.

And now, his wish came true. Sherlock is alive. Somehow, the pain only increases. He blinks a bit, trying to feel his way through the labyrinth of emotions, but is unable to.

"John," Sherlock ventures. He tests out the water, and sensing it is safe, he continues speaking. "I never realized this would hurt you so much."

John's hands tighten into fists, trembling and rapidly turning a bright shade of white. His breathing becomes faster, and he takes a moment to compose himself.

"You never realized this would hurt me, Sherlock?" John says hoarsely, yet it comes out sounding like a threat. He grits his teeth, staring at his flat mate. "You've pulled a lot of shit, Sherlock. But this…this is…."

"Unforgivable," Sherlock states, keeping his hands folded together. Otherwise, they would be trembling.

Sherlock had spent hours, waiting for John to wake up after the fainting spell and consent to see him. During that time, he had used to internet to research exactly what he had done wrong. After wading his way through Tumblr and WikiHow, he had found the answer: he had been cruel.

John considered him to be a friend.

John's taken aback, doubting that Sherlock's words could be genuine. "Yes…Exactly that. You…You were dead, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock says plainly. "I am unworthy to ask you your forgiveness, but I must ask of it anyways."

His jaw is threatening to fall open, as he looks at the nervous and vulnerable consulting detective in front of him. Sherlock's eyes have started to water slightly, as he returns the gaze, almost shyly.

"I see," Sherlock says, starting to get up. "I understand your decision. I accept that I am no longer welcome in…in your life and I shall respect that."

His voice cracks, and the pain spreading from Sherlock's heart becomes apparent to John. Wordless, John stares at Sherlock helplessly, torn between having his rightful rage or stopping his best friend from leaving again.

He swallows, holding Sherlock in place just with his gaze. All of the comments made, about him and Sherlock being lovers, vaguely fly through his mind. He gazes at Sherlock's lips and licks his own unconsciously. Taking a step forward, he raises his arm, prepared to bring Sherlock into a hug.

"This is for being a dick!" John calls out, decking Sherlock in the face.

"John!" Sherlock cries out in alarm, staggering backwards and rubbing his face. His lip has a nice shiny cut on it, with blood slowly throwing from it.

John shakes his hand out, going in for another swing. But this time, he pulls Sherlock into an actual embrace, ignoring the fact that tears are pouring from his eyes. Mary and all of the pain seem to be a distant memory, belonging to someone else.

John is complete again. He has Sherlock with him.

He lets him go reluctantly, though keeps a hand on Sherlock's arm. It acts like an anchor, ensuring John that he won't slip away the moment his back his turned. His heart is pounding and he finds himself staring at Sherlock's bloody lip again.

"You're forgiven, you arse," John chuckles, wiping the blood off of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock lights up with confusion, his eyebrows almost receding into his hair. After a moment, a grin spreads against his face, as he finds himself oddly at ease with John's touch.

"I see you've gotten yourself a new girlfriend," Sherlock mutters, glancing at the slight bulge in John's pocket—a ring box. "Is it serious?"

"Oh, no," John shrugs, settling back into the routine. "She's a bit of a tosser, really."

Sherlock considers bringing up the ring, but decides against it. The bullet wound injury is still healing, and he doesn't want to risk John feeling the need to beat up on him once more.

"John," Sherlock begins quietly. "I'm afraid I have to confess something to you. I am as shocked as you, no doubt, will be. You see, John, I have—"

"A daughter," John interjects, grinning bizarrely. "I know. We've been trying to chase her down—Irene Adler's got her somewhere, I'm certain of it. The bloody Queen is trying to find her!"

Sherlock frowns, his mind whizzing through the deductions. For once, John figured something out before he did—how odd. But after a few seconds, the pieces fall into place, and he grins with the new information. The case is almost completely clear to him—only a few questions still remain to be answered.

"Mycroft lost his power, yet you continued on," Sherlock chuckles. "How fortunate for me and my…child."

"Are you going to keep the kid, Sherlock?" John questions, peering up at his taller companion. "Once we find her, I mean."

"I suppose I will have to," Sherlock shrugs, wearing a mask of indifference. "You know the state of the orphanages, John. They're worse than having me for a father."

He smiles at his friend, causing John to laugh sadly at the comment. Truth be told, the prospect of Sherlock having a kid is thrilling. He can picture the three of them together, happy. He could have a family.

Of course, Sherlock mustn't realize this, John reasons to himself. The domesticity of it might scare him away.

"We looked through files, trying to find someone who resembles Irene Adler," John explains. "No luck."

"Fortunately for you, I was the one who helped her disappear," Sherlock points out, his eyes twinkling with forbidden knowledge.

John pauses, before swearing under his breath. Sherlock had known all along then, when he was lying about Irene being in America. But more importantly than that, an overwhelming feeling of jealousy spread throughout him.

"She was relocated, naturally," Sherlock continues to explain. "Her new name is Ashley Madison. I believe she was the one behind the website of note."

"You know about the website?" John says, feeling incredibly impressed. "Never knew you'd learn to read the news."

"It was an acquired taste," Sherlock admits. "I don't read it very often. Only in want of an interesting case."

John stares at his friend, for a moment wondering how he could possibly be standing in front of him. He imagines himself asking, only for Sherlock to turn into a ghost and slip away, all of it being an illusion.

He doesn't want to shatter the dream.

* * *

Donovan and Lestrade are sitting in a bar, just the two of them. The rest of the department left ages ago, saying empty words of comfort to Lestrade.

_It's not fair! _

_You're a brilliant Detective Inspector…_

_I have no idea why they demoted you, you inspired me…_

…_.I guess you were okay._

_We'll miss you, but it's not like you're leaving, right?_

He shrugged it all off then, and he continues to do so. Most of his friends had left the department, onto better careers for the most part. Only Donovan remains with him to the end, his partner in crime—well, in fighting crime.

"It'll be okay, boss," Donovan says, motioning for another round.

"I'm not your boss anymore," Lestrade chuckles sadly. "Besides, you never even called me boss when I was!"

"I didn't want your ego to get too big," Donovan lies, her face turning a delicate shade of red. "But now, I don't care anymore. I'll call you boss all day….boss."

Lestrade smiles at her, grateful for the effort she's making. It shouldn't bother him too much, having lost his position and his post. There were times when it would have made sense, when the call he made would deserve such an action. But now, it is unwarranted.

It is wrong.

"The Addy Snell case was closed," Lestrade says.

Donovan sighs, ready to hit her head against the wall. "Honestly, how can they expect us to do our jobs when they—"

"I don't think they ever wanted us to solve it," Lestrade admits, taking a straight shot of vodka. He kicks a bit, wiggling in his seat. "I think they wanted us to fail."

"Do you know who ordered your demotion, boss?" Donovan adds suddenly, with a knowing grin spreading across her face.

Lestrade shakes his head. He hadn't glanced over the paperwork too much. It is beyond comprehension for him still—the words, written in red, still float in front of his eyes. Perhaps they will never fade away, the evidence of injustice and failure staying with him till the end of days.

"The bloke they got to replace Holmes," Donovan grins, before feeling the need to clarify. "The not dead one….Oh, that isn't much better…You know, Mycroft. The fat one."

Lestrade nods, shaking the image of Mycroft's perfect smirk out of his head. He never could understand those feelings for the elder Holmes, and found it best not to dwell on them. They could lead to nothing but trouble.

"He's the same one that closed down the Addy Snell case," Donovan states, acting like it explained everything.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Lestrade sighs, taking another shot. The taste is awful, yet it gives him what he needs—relief.

"He demoted you and shut down the case—he doesn't want it solved, boss," Donovan says, grinning from ear to ear. "And the people who don't want things solved are usually involved in it themselves."

"So…You think that the Thompson bloke had something to do with the girl's kidnapping?"

"Bet my life on it," Donovan wagers, taking another gulp of her drink. She squirms a little, blinking her eyes. "Promise you, I'm not off my knocker. I think we're onto something."

Lestrade mulls it over, trying to fit it all together. There is no explanation for why Thompson would want the case to remain unsolved, unless he has something on the line. He glances up at Donovan, knowing in his gut that she is right.

It terrifies him. Mycroft held a lot of power once—now Thompson has it. Would they really be able to take down a giant with just a slingshot?

"The case is cold, though," Lestrade protests. "It's over. There's nothing to do about it."

"We solve it ourselves," Donovan suggests, not missing a beat. "I've still got some pull around here. We solve it, get that git out of office, and get you your job back."

Lestrade blinks at her, his face slowly widening into a grin.

"Problem, boss?"

"You're brilliant," Lestrade beams. "God, I'd kiss you but it would be gross as hell."

Donovan glares a bit, before softening slightly. "That's what all of the girls want to hear, boss. That we're gross as hell. Maybe you should stick with gents."

Mycroft appears in Lestrade's mind.

* * *

The Queen sits down, the simple chair looking like a throne with her upon it. Security crowds the room, all staring straight forward, yet never missing the slightest movement. Daintily, she sets her teacup down, and motions to her guest that he is free to speak.

"Your Majesty," Anthony begins. "I've come to tell you that I will personally be overseeing the progress of the Addy Snell case."

The Queen is unmoved, staring forward with an air of indifference. Her wrinkled face possesses some rare traces of remaining beauty, yet it still holds a regal air. She nods slightly at Anthony, allowing him to continue.

He isn't nervous at all, completely in his element. To him, this is all a game, a game to prevent him from being swallowed whole by boredom.

"The detectives on the case were treating it poorly, Your Majesty," Anthony lies, a small smile sliding up onto his face like a serpent. "I intend to treat this case with the importance it deserves, and I ensure you, it will be solved soon enough."

The Queen nods, taking a small sip of her tea. The tiny motion is enough to let Anthony know that she likes him, that he isn't in any danger of losing his head. If he could relax more, he would have.

"Have the detectives in question been dealt with?" the Queen poises, setting her cup down on its saucer once more.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Anthony promises. "I've dealt with them personally. They don't understand how important Addy Snell is to you, Your Majesty."

"So they did not," the Queen said plainly, motioning for one of her guards to come over.

Anthony's eyes follow him as he steps swiftly and quietly, bending over to hear the whispered instructions of his Queen. He nods before disappearing, vanishing out of the tiny parlor and from all existence, as far as Anthony is aware.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Your Majesty?" Anthony asks, bowing his head subtly.

A rare smile treasures the Queen's face, and she nods slightly. "Continue as you have been doing, Mr. Thompson. I see great things in your future."

Anthony nods, bowing again as he rises. The Queen excuses him with a simple wave of her hand, smiling once more as soon as he's turned his back.

She likes him, far more than she ever did Mycroft. Fortune has quite literally smiled upon Anthony Thompson.

* * *

Mycroft sweeps through the hospital, casting an air of importance about him. Despite having no power, the impression he gives off is enough for no one to question his presence. Eventually, he finds the room of interest at Maida Vale hospital—Sherlock's room.

"Hello, brother of mine," Mycroft grins sourly.

John is asleep on the bed, while Sherlock is lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with his hands clasped as if in prayer. He is praying to the wrong deities, at any rate.

"Mycroft," Sherlock states, not bothering to move. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It's time I told you something I ought to have told you a long time ago," Mycroft says quickly, trying to gloss over his admittance of being wrong. Sherlock perks up slightly, and Mycroft swears—he noticed it.

"Oh?" Sherlock says, his face emotionless but his voice betraying his excitement.

"The chap who replaced me—Anthony Thompson," Mycroft begins, building up the drama. "He isn't who he claims to be."

"Most people aren't," Sherlock muses. "Why is this important, Mycroft? Can't you see I'm busy? Go bother someone else."

Mycroft frowns, trying to think of a way to properly explain how dangerous Anthony Thompson is. There is a reason no one had found the body on the rooftop—an alarming reason that Mycroft wishes never came to be.

"Anthony Thompson is an old friend of yours," Mycroft prefaces.

"I don't have friends!"

"I know you don't."

"Then who is it?" Sherlock huffs, becoming frustrated with the entire song and dance his brother insisted on putting him through.

"James Moriarty," Mycroft says slowly, as if tasting each syllable in the name. Underneath the hard icy exterior, he is shuddering, wondering how he could have let such a criminal rise to power.

How could he protect his baby brother now?

"Moriarty," Sherlock repeats, his pupils dilating. The rush of a case is filling him up, sending energy jolting into all of his muscles.

"Yes, Sherlock. James Moriarty," Mycroft repeats. "I fear that he may attempt to do you harm—I'm concerned for you, Sherlock. I cannot protect you this time."

Sherlock unclasps his hands, raising himself up from his position on the floor. John continues to sleep peacefully on the bed, unaware to the world beginning to crumble rapidly around him once more. The pieces of the puzzle from earlier fall together in Sherlock's mind—the case is solved.

The battle, however, is lost.

"Can you protect him?" Sherlock asks quietly, avoiding Mycroft's gaze.

He doesn't need to specify whom it is he wants protected. Mycroft knows, just as he always does. For a brief moment, Mycroft considers lying to him—but it would not be kinder.

"No," Mycroft answers plainly, electing to tell the truth.

"Will he try to kill him?" Sherlock asks, his voice as small as a child's.

"Maybe."

* * *

John continues to sleep, signs of worry and stress gone from his face. People are supposedly completely at peace when asleep, as if they were angels. Sherlock disagrees—John is simply John.

Mycroft had left unhappily about half an hour ago, giving Sherlock time to think. The identity of his brother's replacement meant nothing to him—but now, it complicates everything.

Pulling out John's phone, Sherlock notices a few texts he missed—mostly from Lestrade. It takes him only two tries to guess John's password—the same as Irene's—and he reads them in full.

_Got demoted. Case closed. –GL_

_Donovan and I are at the Coach &amp; Horses. Join us? –GL_

_Figured out that the new Mycroft demoted me, shut the case down too –GL_

_John? –GL_

_He's involved –GL_

Sherlock shuts the phone off, replacing it on the bedside table. His heart races, as he feels the game thicken. The spider's web is vaster, more so than he could ever have imagined. As much as Moriarty disgusted him, he excited him.

"Moriarty and Irene Adler are working together, then," Sherlock says aloud. "It's all some sort of ploy, but for money? No…This goes deeper than that."

He gently feels at his bullet wound, attempting to pull more and more information from what he had seen. Moriarty always had a flare for dramatics, and for leaving things in plain sight.

Perhaps…

Sherlock frowns a bit, mulling the idea over.

"It's possible," he mutters, vaguely aware of it, yet struggling to explain how it fit.

The very first time he had come into true contact with Moriarty, he had received a pink phone. It alluded to a previous case of his, in which a cabbie convinced people to commit suicide. Moriarty was behind that, but it was a calling card of his.

Could it be that his daughter is at the very spot he found the pink woman, lying down dead?

Dread fills his body, confirming it for him. He glances over at the still sleeping John, pondering on whether or not to rouse him.

And whether or not his child is already dead.


	11. Chapter 11

"_Her words were like tinfoil;_

_They shone and they covered things up"_

_-Helen Cross_

* * *

Sherlock had shaken John awake, after sending a cryptic text to Lestrade to meet the duo at Lauriston Gardens. It is number three, if memory serves him correctly—which it always does.

The cab ride was short and tense, with Sherlock filling John in on all of the necessary information. John looked to be in a daze the entire time, filled with a happy sort of despair. Perhaps, he was waiting for the dream to end, and for the nightmare to begin.

"We're here," Sherlock states softly once they've arrived. He sprints out of the car, opening the door of the old and ill-maintained house.

It breaks off of its hinges, a few rats scurrying as the consulting detective rushes inside. John follows after him, still filled with gloomy ecstasy, watching Sherlock disappear around the corner. Particles of dust fall into the air as Sherlock pounds up the stairs, and John follows quickly.

There is no pain in his leg.

They climb up the stairs, not talking, yet moving in sync. It's as if they are two parts of one whole, each moving towards the dying little girl on the top floor. Brief flashbacks sound through John's mind.

_He's with me._

_Pink!_

_She's dead._

_Yes, thank you for your input._

_Perfectly sound deduction._

"Will there be a missing suitcase, Sherlock?" John says, panting only slightly as they finally reach the top floor.

Sherlock giggles slightly, and John has to stifle their laughter. It was on this case, ages ago, that they established crime scene etiquette—laughter isn't proper.

"I doubt it," Sherlock answers, pushing the door open gently.

The room is exactly as they left it. Dust swims in the air, floating around like tiny little creatures. Broken needles are shoved into corners, with a few wrappers around them. Kids would hide out here all of the time, or they had, before a woman had been found dead here.

Only of course this time, there is no woman in pink, lying on the floor. Instead there is a child. Her hair is the darkest shade of black imaginable, hinting at the malevolent forces behind her conception. In her near death-like state, there is no trace of peace on her face.

If anything, she appears to be bored, waiting to wake up in a world of pirates and magic. Her dress is pink, fashioned after Princess Aurora's—a fact that John is only slightly ashamed to admit he knows. With her hair curled into little ringlets, she does look like a classic princess.

"This is your daughter," John whispers, watching as Sherlock bent down to scoop up the child.

"Her pulse is weak," Sherlock comments, checking the vitals of the little princess.

"She's your daughter," John repeats, the doctor in him stilled by the giddy uncle.

Sherlock frowns a bit, casting a look at John. "She's not really my daughter, is she? She's a result of someone using my sperm."

"So she's your daughter," John repeats, and then he blinks. The dreamlike quality has worn away, replaced by fear and panic.

"She's your daughter, and she's dying!" John screams, ushering Sherlock down the stairs quickly. The sounds of the siren echo in the distance—Lestrade is nearly there.

The girl doesn't move at all, limp in her father's grip. For a moment, John catches a look of concern on Sherlock's face, but it quickly vanishes. It might have never been there at all—a simple trick of the light. Her little feet lightly move as Sherlock runs, causing her to look like a doll, rather than a human being.

By the time she is out the door, Lestrade's abruptly come to a stop. Fresh tire marks showcase the intensity of it, and Donovan moves to grab the child, only to have Sherlock dodge her grip. He jumps into the car, Lestrade in tow, and in what seems like seconds, the car has taken off.

"Wow….," Donovan breathes, "They left us, huh?"

"He actually cares about someone," John mutters.

"I know. I thought the only person he gave a damn about was….Well, that's beside the point. Come on. We'll get a cab to the hospital."

The two of them run out to the main road. It begins to drizzle, just like that night so many years ago, when John and Sherlock first bonded. Would it be the same, John wonders, with the new little one? He grins slightly, imagining what Sherlock would name the child—perhaps Hamish, if he were lucky.

More likely, though, he thinks he would name her Casey—so he could call her Case. Or perhaps he would come up with some nonsense, such as claiming that Sherlock is actually a girl's name.

Donovan hails the cab, practically shoving John inside, who is becoming lost in his thoughts once more.

"So you found the kid, then," Donovan beams. "That's good news, yeah? We've got progress, Lestrade can get his job back, it'll all be good…"

"Yeah," John agrees, nodding a bit jerkily as he snaps back into reality. "It's almost too good, isn't it? It feels like we shouldn't be allowed to have things go so well."

Donovan shrugs, though John can tell she agrees. But things aren't going too well still—there is a kidnapper and a murderer, out to use Sherlock's child for some purpose. The girl could easily die on the way to the hospital. Perhaps the killer would come back in the night, or perhaps they were meant to find her.

But even then, finding a nearly dead child seems to be a victory for John—how odd his life has become.

Donovan taps his shoulder—Maida Vale stands in front of them, impressive and cold. A patient is being wheeled inside, surrounded by paramedics. An old woman is helped outside by her grandchildren, her face stained with tears.

"She'll be inside," Donovan says, grabbing John and tugging him in through the door, as soon as the way was clear.

She flashes her badge, though it isn't necessary—John works here. No one would question him. After a brief discussion with the receptionist, they gain the number to the room, and they run down the hall.

"She'll be fine," Donovan soothes, sliding to a halt outside of the hospital room. Slightly muffled, they can hear Lestrade and Sherlock speaking in heavy voices—they both are colored by palpable fear.

John opens the door with a trembling hand, peering inside at the patient. She looks crumbled and tiny, her little fingers curled around Sherlock's own hand.

"John," Sherlock whispers, his eyes shimmering slightly. _Could he have been…crying?_

"Sherlock," John replies, reaching down to brush his own hand against the forehead of the child.

"Lestrade!" Lestrade jokes, but no one else in the room laughs. He stands there, laughing awkwardly to himself.

"This is her, then," Donovan says, feeling a bit dumbfounded, "This is Addy Snell."

The group is strangely silent, looking at the various contraptions already hooked up to the girl. No one needs to voice what the doctors already knew—it is unlikely for her to survive. The girl would die, her entire life remaining a mystery that not even Sherlock Holmes could uncover.

If she opens her eyes, she will live—that is what the doctors had said.

Otherwise, they'll remain closed forever, never to open again.

* * *

Irene frowns, hanging up the phone hard enough to dent the screen. Of course, it is more that she imagines she could—she wouldn't ever truly try to. She loves that little phone, the power that she finds with each and every phone call.

In an ideal world, Sherlock would have paid for his child to be returned to him. Her primary plan is done, foiled by Sherlock discovering the child. It had been Moriarty's need for drama to place the girl there—a mistake Irene intends not to repeat.

But it doesn't matter. She has another plan, and if that one fails, then she'll simply move onto the next one. Sherlock's weak point has been found—now it's time to crush him, to bring him down to his knees.

If she cannot have riches, she'll settle for suffering instead. All that matters is that she wins—and that Holmes loses.

She picks up the phone, punching in a single number four—she has this particular minion of hers on speed dial. The line is answered almost instantly, and she imagines the person on the other end is terrified of displeasing her.

Her mouth twists into a grin. "Hello, Magnussen."

"_I've already fulfilled our favor—"_

"The girl isn't dead," Irene laughs. "Our deal was that you would kill the girl, and then I won't expose you for the nasty thing you are. For now, at least. I might change my mind…"

There is silence.

"Can you hear this?" Irene taunts, tapping her fingers against her other mobile device—her camera phone. "That's the sound of everything you worked for, vanishing."

"_I'm aware," _Magnussen answers slowly, the smallest tremble in his voice.

"So, the choice is yours then," Irene reminds him. "You either kill the girl, or I socially murder you."

"_Consider it done," _Magnussen sighs, ending the conversation. The line goes dead and Irene frowns slightly—she would have liked to toy with him some more.

His usefulness could only continue for so long, after all. And once she is done with him, she'll dispose of him. It isn't an act of hatred—it's good business sense.

The very principles Magnussen lives by shall be his undoing. It made Irene grin, thinking of that type of symmetry, making life look like it is simply a novel, with a very clever author.

But of course, this time, it is Irene writing the story. She gets to dictate the tale, and in her story, the little princess shall die. The brave knight shall have his heart turned to ice and shattered, as death takes him as well. Leaving her, the witch, to reign supreme and unhindered.

Maybe then she could feel something beyond the emptiness.

* * *

There is a knock at the door, breaking the uneasy silence. Sherlock's eyes are locked on the heart monitor, watching each rise and each fall. John, Lestrade, and Donovan all regard the child.

The door swings open, revealing Mycroft Holmes and Mary Morstan. Mycroft is dressed in a smart suit as always, his face looking slightly thin—the diet has started working. Mary, on the other hand, seems to be rather stressed. Her hair is ruffled and out of order, while her clothes have been placed on in a rush.

"Just got off my shift," Mary explains, looking down at her unkempt appearance. "Hurried over here as soon as I could."

She steps over to John, leaning in to kiss him. He kisses her back gently, imagining himself shoving her away and spitting into the sink to clear his mouth. John shudders on the inside, trying to put such ideas out of his head.

He wants to marry her, doesn't he?

"She's still asleep," John explains, nodding at the sleeping child. "Don't know when or if she's going to wake up."

"Poor thing," Mary says strangely, feeling the forehead of the child. Sherlock looks away from the monitor, taking a sideways glance at Mary. He frowns a bit, before resuming his previous task.

"Irene Adler and James Moriarty are behind this," Sherlock states.

"What?" Lestrade laughs a bit, raising an eyebrow quizzically. "You've got to be joking! What, did they come back from the dead to do it?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers plainly. "Or rather, they simply never died. It isn't that hard to do. I did it myself."

"You could make a club," Donovan jokes, trying to lighten the mood slightly.

"Hold meetings and everything…" Lestrade mutters.

Sherlock stares at the two of them. He seems to be ready to give them a biting remark, but a quick glance from John silences it before it ever begins. He sighs, before continuing his theory. "Irene Adler is the mother of my child—she had Moriarty assist her into making this a scandal, I assume."

"The guy who took Mycroft's job is involved, too!" Lestrade points out. "I told John about it. I wanted to get our best forensic technician on it, but she quit…Quit right after Maggie's case."

"I know," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes slightly.

"James Moriarty is 'the guy,'" Mycroft points out, with a smug matter of fact smile. "Moriarty engineered all of this as a distraction, in order to seize my post."

"He was successful," Sherlock says. "Irene's game is always a power play—you don't just have a kid to kill it. There's something she wants to get."

Donovan exchanges a glance with John, frowning a bit. The rest of them gaze down at the sleeping girl, her face drained of almost all color. She could very easily be dead, if not for the soft yet steady beats of the monitor, confirming that she is indeed alive.

The ring of a phone breaks the silence—Mary blushes, digging into her purse. "Sorry, I've got to take that!"

Her face a shade of crimson, Mary walks out of the room quietly, and shuts the door behind her. Her heels clack against the ground, until they are no longer audible. It makes only a few moments before everyone forgets Mary left.

"Moriarty wants power," Mycroft states firmly, grasping the handle of his umbrella. "I assume Irene wants him to be in power—to protect her."

"She was after protection last time," John agrees, a grim smile spread across his face. "With Moriarty in charge, she would be able to do whatever she want, and have government guaranteed protection."

"She could do anything," Donovan adds, her face sad and thoughtful.

A small cough almost goes unheard, as the monitors begin to beep frantically. John swings into doctor mode, helping the struggling little girl sit up, and giving her something to help her breathe. She opens her eyes, a brilliant shade of blue—or perhaps grey.

At any rate, they are identical to Sherlock's.

"Hello," Lestrade greets warmly, crouching down as to be on eye level with the girl. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade…what's your name?"

She glances around, trembling slightly at the sight of all the new people. Eventually, her gaze latches onto Sherlock, and her eyes widen with amazement.

"Arwen," she says, struggling to speak. "My name's Arwen."

_Arwen Holmes_, John thinks to himself, taking a moment to glance over at Sherlock. For once, the consulting detective is at a loss for words.

He's finally met his daughter.

* * *

Mary's heart is pounding as she rushes out of the hospital, in search of a place to privately take a call. She spots the area designated for smoking and goes over there—luckily, she is alone.

"Sorry about that, Cam," Mary says uneasily. "I was in a room with…"

Her voice trails off, realizing the uselessness of explanations. Either Magnussen would already know, or he wouldn't care. Trying to give an excuse would only waste her breath. There is no point to it.

"_I'm aware. That's why I've called, actually."_

His voice surprises Mary, sounding tight and uncomfortable. If Magnussen was held a gunpoint, this is the way Mary would expect him to sound. She smiles in spite of herself, at the idea that someone out there could make Magnussen squirm.

It is karma in its sweetest form.

But then, her blood chills. _Who could possibly control Magnussen? _

"What do you need?" Mary says, attempting to keep her voice steady. She glances around with an air of paranoia, as if John was hiding behind a bush, ready to catch her in the act.

"_I need you to kill her," _Magnussen requests.

"You…You need me to kill who?" Mary responds quietly, dread swirling up in her stomach.

It would be hard to murder someone with Sherlock Holmes around and get away with it. It is a miracle that he hadn't called her out on her lies already. And there would be no way that she could suffer the pain of having John find out whom she really is.

He wouldn't love her anymore.

"_Sherlock Holmes' daughter, of course_," Magnussen laughs icily, licking his lips softly. She can hear the repulsive action over the phone, fighting the urge to gag. Even miles away from him, she is trapped within his power.

"Any specifications?" Mary asks without remorse. Killing a child is easy for her—she's done it before, and now, she'll do it again.

"_I need it done as soon as you can,"_ Magnussen orders. _"See to it that you give this the utmost care. No one can know what has been done."_

Mary nods and the line goes dead. She frowns a bit, realizing that Magnussen could see her. She turns around, looking for the glint of a camera, and finds nothing. A few teenagers walk over, waiting for her to leave.

She sighs and steps aside, letting them illegally smoke in peace.

The task ahead of her would be easier, if there wasn't the complication of John Watson. He mustn't realize that Mary is the culprit. And while she would enjoy putting a bullet in the child's brain, she has to make it more discreet.

Perhaps she would pull the plug on the life support—an easy mistake for a new nurse to make, and something anyone could do.

If she were lucky, they would never even suspect her.

* * *

Lestrade had left the hospital room after Mycroft, with Sherlock and John talking of leaving later. Sherlock had gotten quickly attached to Arwen, though Lestrade could tell he didn't want to admit it.

"Come in, Mr. Lestrade," a security officer greets him at the door, shaking him out of his musings.

He nods and walks inside, his coat flaring out slightly behind him like a cape. He bows his head, upon seeing an old woman, dressed in the finest soft pink dress money could buy. On her curly white hair rests a beautiful crown, passed down for generations.

It is the Queen of England.

"You may speak," she says regally, motioning for a servant to fetch her some more tea.

Lestrade's heart hammers nervously, as if this were his first time speaking to another human being. He takes a slight moment to compose himself, stilling his trembling hands.

"Your Majesty," he begins. "We have found Addy Snell—the case is closed."

A brief expression of shock flickers across the Queen's face, only to be replaced by the same unimpressed expression. Lestrade sweats slightly, feeling the pressure increase on him.

After a few minutes of the Queen remaining silent, Lestrade clears his throat.

"The case that you demoted me for—we've solved it," Lestrade repeats. "Addy Snell is at Maida Vale hospital…It's not certain if she's going to pull through, but it was looking good about an hour ago."

"Is that all you have to tell me, Mr. Lestrawn?" the Queen sighs.

"It's Lestrade," Lestrade corrects, laughing awkwardly. He never thought of himself as being a nervous person, but now, it seems to be the only possible way for him to describe himself.

"Very well," the Queen says, pursing her lips. "I am pleased that the girl has been found safe, however…You have failed to inform me as to who kidnapped her."

"James Moriarty," Lestrade replies, his legs shaking.

The Queen nods and picks up her cup of tea, not seeming to be too surprised. It takes Lestrade a moment to understand it—people in the upper ranks of society fake their deaths all the time, he figures. It wouldn't be all too surprising to the Queen, then, that someone had done so.

"And Irene Adler."

Her eyes widen in horror, dropping the teacup made out of bone china onto the ground. It shatters instantly, the tiny white and pink pieces lying limply on the floor. Vaguely, Lestrade can see the inscription that had been placed on the bottom side of the cup.

_Royal Bone China. Made in England 1864. _

"She's back," the Queen whispers, her face flushed. "God save the Queen."


	12. Chapter 12

"_By the time you swear you're his,_

_Shivering and sighing,_

_And he vows his passion is_

_Infinite, undying—_

_Lady, make a note of this:_

_One of you is lying"_

_-Dorothy Parker_

* * *

A new hire at Maida Vale yawns slightly, coming in for his morning shift. His duties are small—checking in on a few of the patients, ensuring they have plenty of nourishment if needed. It isn't the career he imagined he would have when he was little.

He thought he would be a pirate.

"Morning, love," he murmurs, walking into the room of one of the younger patients. If memory serves him correctly, she isn't older than three.

He frowns, imagining his own little sister, strapped to a bed with various machines hooked up to her. It isn't a sight he likes to ponder. Blinking, he tries to force the image out of his head, and focus on the child in front of him.

It's a miracle she survived the night, after all.

He props the door open against his back, holding a tray of food for the child. No one is quite certain as to what exactly put her into that sleep. The latest theory indicates poison—something sadly believable.

"Awake, sweetheart?" he asks, turning his head around.

The tray falls to the floor gracefully, as if time slowed down just for it. It hits, the milk and cereal almost bouncing, before colliding with the floor again. The bowl shatters along with the cup, bits of glass flying across the floor.

It all happened in a fraction of a second, but time only resumes when he inhales again, filling his lungs with precious oxygen. He looks around the room rapidly three times, dread pouring in like a torrential flood.

There is no patient in this room. There is no little girl, asleep and clinging to life desperately on the bed. There is no caring father, uncle, and friends staring at her, talking in hushed voices.

There is no Arwen Holmes.

He spins on his heels, running towards the door, only to slip on the spilled milk. Hardly having enough time to catch himself, he doesn't notice the open window.

"Help!" he screams, his cry piercing the air. "A patient's gone missing!"

He slides out the door, running frantically down the halls. All of the lights are still on, casting the hospital into a place of timelessness. There is no night and there is no day.

A blonde head appears almost instantly behind him, catching him before he falls again.

"Eddy!" she says, gripping him tightly. "What's the matter with you?"

Her accent is strong, and Eddy tries to calm himself down as he stares into the eyes of Mary Morstan.

"Arwen Holmes went missing," Eddy whispers, hyperventilating slightly.

Mary frowns slightly at his state—he really shouldn't be working in a hospital—before comprehending what he said. Her target is missing—the target she would have killed otherwise.

"Arwen Holmes?" Mary repeats, yet she doesn't need it.

She helps steady Eddy, before abandoning him just the same. She schools her expression and her reaction, as if Arwen were any other patient who went missing. Opening up the door to the room, Mary gazes around, looking for any sort of sign.

The window is open, the curtains fluttering lightly with the wind. Her heart skips a beat, realizing what happened. She swallows thickly, her mind then turned to John.

He couldn't love her—not now, not if he found out. How could he?

* * *

Magnussen taps his fingers nervously against the table. Sweat drenches him, more so than normal. The entire world is wet to his touch on most days—but now it is drenched. He is swimming, no, he is _drowning _and gasping for air.

The clacking of heels alerts him to the presence of a kraken—something far worse than any shark.

"Sorry we couldn't talk in person," Irene apologizes, her voice amplified as if she were the star in a musical.

"It's no matter," Magnussen states, attempting to appear just as cool and relaxed as Irene. He sets his glasses down on a pile of papers—documents to memorize, fresh from his dear friend, the Russian President.

"This was too sensitive for a phone call," Irene explains, smiling as she sits on Magnussen's desk, holding him with merely her gaze.

"Of course," Magnussen replies. "I was just handling some business with the Russians."

"Anything interesting?"

He chuckles. "You would be the last person I'd tell, Miss Adler."

She nods, though her eyes flash with lightning. Her lips shimmer as well, the scarlet lipstick becoming mesmerizing. "So, what is it you had to tell me regarding my daughter? If you've come to show me her corpse, I don't care enough."

"She was just means to an end," Magnussen nods. "I knew that from the very start—your pressure point is far different, Miss Adler."

"I've told you to call me Irene," she laughs. "Though I would rather appreciate it if you stopped beating around the bush and got to it. I've got clients to tempt."

He licks his lips softly—an old habit. With a glance, he could see all of Irene's pressure points, displayed like writing in a computer screen.

"Your new assistant did mention that—where'd you get her from?" Magnussen poses, ignoring the topic at hand.

"Scotland Yard, actually," Irene grins, as if she had discovered a new element and been awarded a Nobel Prize. "She came with information—it was free. Good for business."

"A nice find," Magnussen says, grinning slightly. "I wouldn't mind having her once you're done. But, now, to business…Arwen has vanished."

"So your assassin did her job," Irene concludes, grinning devilishly. "I never was a good mother, was I?"

"No," Magnussen chuckles. "You weren't. But that isn't what I mean, Miss Adler. I got a call this morning—her bed was found empty, just an hour before she was scheduled to die."

Irene reaches into her pocket, the very one in which she always keeps her beloved camera phone. Magnussen remains still, as if she were a tyrannosaurus rex, deciding whether or not to kill its prey. With his eyes, he glances her all over, looking at the tight form-fitting red dress.

"So she isn't dead, then," Irene muses, pulling out something tiny, hard for Magnussen to see without his glasses.

He doesn't dare risk reaching for them.

"She could be dead," Magnussen suggests. "Either way, I am unaware of what happened to her."

"Thank you," Irene smiles, flashing her pearly whites. She clutches the small object, and Magnussen's blood chills.

It is none other than a pocket pistol, with a peculiar design flaw.

"It only will fire properly half of the time," Irene mentions, seeing Magnussen's train of thought. "Care to bet your life on it?"

He says nothing, staring forward at his captor.

"No?" Irene frowns. "What a shame."

She squeezes the trigger with ease, and something emerges from the chamber of the gun. Magnussen doesn't have time to blink in surprise, before the darkness descends on him.

_This will be bad for business_, he ponders as it all fades away.

* * *

"She's gone," John whispers.

His face is white, and he looks at Sherlock, searching for an explanation. The hospital had alerted Sherlock as soon as they knew, of course. But Mary's text to John had reached them sooner.

"How can you be so bloody calm when your dying daughter is missing!" John practically shouts.

Sherlock ignores his shouting, continuing to play soothing notes on the violin. Mrs. Hudson was all too willing to let him move back into 221B. The accumulation of dust only seemed to please Sherlock even more, a bonus for her.

She still likes to claim she isn't their housekeeper—they allow her to maintain that illusion.

"We've got to figure this out!" John seethes, grabbing the violin from Sherlock.

Sherlock pouts slightly, looking like a child who lost their favorite toy.

"You took my violin," Sherlock mutters, flopping onto the couch, clad in his nightgown.

"Your daughter is missing!" John exclaims. "Don't you think that is _slightly _more important?!"

A rare smile shows up on Sherlock's face, and his eyes widen slightly. John leaps for joy on the inside—this is the look. This is the look of a Sherlock who knows something, who has something figured out. Almost becoming giddy with excitement, John softens his composure, waiting for Sherlock to share his information.

A few minutes later, John gives up on waiting.

"Would you be so kind to share with the class?" he rolls his eyes, frustration coloring his voice.

"Your friend, Maggie," Sherlock grins. "An assistant of mine worked on that case—she found an odd trace in the computer. At first, I assumed Maggie had gotten into trouble with the CIA."

"What's Maggie got to do with the CIA?" John puzzles, though impressed with Sherlock and a little disappointed in himself. He had almost forgotten that Maggie's death resulted from this case.

"Precisely," Sherlock continues. "When combined with the fact that Charles Augustus Magnussen was murdered this morning, even someone as simple as yourself should be able to understand it."

He hasn't missed this part. For a moment, he imagines himself putting together the connection between this Magnussen bloke and Maggie's death. But then the dream all fades away, crumpled by his ordinary mind. He would never be able to fathom what Sherlock could so naturally.

"Who is Magnussen?" John questions, long past the stage of shame when it came to not knowing anything that Sherlock did know.

"To you, he is the editor and publisher of a newspaper," Sherlock replies curtly. "But he is far more than that—he is the king of blackmail."

"So he blackmailed the wrong person, and now he's dead," John reasons with a grin. "Is that it?"

"Nope," Sherlock replies, popping the 'p.' "Quite the opposite. Magnussen could only be killed by someone more powerful than himself."

"Moriarty?" John asks, trying to think of any other larger than life criminals with difficulty.

"Perhaps," Sherlock nods. "Regardless, Magnussen doesn't kill. His hand had to have been forced. And who, John, do we know that loves to force hands?"

"Not your brother," John pauses, frowning. "Er….Irene Adler?"

Sherlock's face lights up, in the way a teacher's does after a particularly slow student finally arrives at the correct conclusion.

"Only another blackmailer could control a blackmailer," Sherlock agrees. "So, let's say Adler uses Magnussen to help her with this task. One of them, then, gets a CIA trained killer to hack into Maggie's computer."

"The same person who killed Maggie?"

"No. My sources indicate the hack wasn't local—it came from somewhere else. But it's only a matter now of tracking down the IP address of the individual, and then, we'll have our next clue."

"Brilliant," John praises, looking at Sherlock breathlessly.

How had it not occurred to him before how beautiful Sherlock is? His eyes are dilated, the most beautiful color, the color of the sky just after a storm has cleared. Hope and excitement fill them. Each of his features is carefully sculptured, as if a god had crafted them.

And don't even get him started on his cheekbones.

"Thank you," Sherlock nods, getting up. "I'll need a moment to get changed. I can't be seen in pajamas."

"Yet a sheet at Buckingham Palace was appropriate," John mutters under his breath, partially disappointed Sherlock would not be dressed in just about nothing for this outing.

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Sherlock wink, grinning at him. He squirmed slightly, regretting the lack of time left to take a cold shower.

* * *

Yellow tape covers the door to Maggie's home. It has begun to peel slightly, mostly from time and weathering. Carefully, as if uncovering an ancient tomb, John peels it away, leaving the door bare.

"After you, then," John says politely, stepping aside for Sherlock.

Sherlock pulls out a bobby pin and makes quick work of the lock, the door opening with ease. Normally, John would have protested and made a long speech about ethics—but not this time.

Not when a little girl's life is on the line.

The door opens silently, without the creaking noise John expected. Sherlock walks forward, heading instantly to Maggie's desk—her laptop still sits there, untouched.

"That's hers," John says, in an attempt to have some sort of use.

Sherlock opens it up, guessing the password in a few tries. John remembers how many tries it took Sherlock to guess his password—one.

"I'm going to need you to be patient," Sherlock mutters. "This will take a bit."

John nods, watching Sherlock set to work. He pulls out some small contraptions, plugging them into the laptop. John's never seen them before, oblivious as to their purpose. Angry text appears on the screen, as Sherlock taps rapidly, only to get more and more negative results.

"There," Sherlock says. "Five minutes. Not too shabby."

John stares at him—he doesn't need to voice his opinion. The slight smirk on Sherlock's face lets him know that already, it has been acknowledged.

"Now, we simply pinpoint this address," Sherlock says, copying and passing the IP address that had appeared.

A small map appears, showing where the signal had come from. John's eyes widen, recognizing it all too completely.

"Can you zoom in?" John asks, numbness spreading through his body.

Sherlock obliges wordlessly, enhancing the image. The blinds on the window are a soft shade of pink, with a few plants sitting nearby. For someone else, it would have been impossible to identify where the image came from, beyond the simple overall address.

"The signal came from Maida Vale," Sherlock murmurs, putting his hands together. "The question is—from who?"

"It's Mary," John states calmly, without a hint of a tremble. "That window, it's Mary's."

"I expected as much," Sherlock admits. "When I first met her, I deduced she was a liar—now I know why."

"You didn't tell me?" John asks, feeling hopelessness spread throughout him, combined with a strange sense of relief.

"I did not want to shatter your happiness, John," Sherlock says, in his irritatingly matter of fact voice. "I care for you, even if it is a disadvantage."

John stares at Sherlock, spotting the utter weakness in front of him. It catches him off guard, but he simply nods—he cannot push Sherlock. It is what makes the two of them work—they do what they are able to, and nothing more.

While they may ask for miracles, they do not expect them.

"I'll let Lestrade know to send some officers down," John says, feeling strangely calm. The hopelessness had vanished. "He'll want to make an arrest before Mary realizes we figured it all out."

"Are you sure, John?" Sherlock frowns. "You were going to propose to this woman."

"Maybe I fancied buying a ring for someone else," John shrugs, pulling the phone out of his pocket.

He remembers the color of the ring very well—the color of Sherlock's eyes.

Punching a few numbers, Lestrade's contact appears. He hits the call button without any sense of hesitation, ready to condemn his lover to prison.

The line begins to ring. Sherlock searches John's face, attempting to understand. Yet this is something that cannot be deduced.

It can only be felt.

"Lestrade? Yes, hello, it's John. We know who kidnapped Arwen," John prefaces. "You'll want to send some officers over to Maida Vale."

"_Really? That's great! Mind telling me who it was, mate, before I send a small army?"_

"Mary," John answers simply. "She goes on her lunch break in about an hour or so, so I'd recommend you do it now, otherwise she might get away."

He hangs up the line, before he can hear the shock in Lestrade's voice. He doesn't need someone to judge him for his actions—he understands how it all must seem. But it doesn't matter to him. He couldn't care less, strangely, of what happened to Mary.

"She kidnapped the girl," John blurted, explaining himself aloud. "It was her choice. And she was lying to me."

"Yes, she was," Sherlock agrees, looking at John with uncertainty.

"I've always hated lies."

* * *

Mary relaxes in her chair, sipping at her coffee. It warms her up, making the uncertainty and fear wash away. She hasn't heard from Magnussen since this morning.

Perhaps he died.

She chuckles slightly at the thought, thinking of how simple her life would become. She wouldn't need to worry about keeping John in love with her—he would be hers, guaranteed.

She sets the coffee down, watching the surface of it still. It calms down, before it decides to quiver again. Frowning, Mary realizes the cause of it.

Someone is running down the halls, carrying some sort of equipment with them. She ponders it for a moment, and then decides it is probably some poor soul, stuck on a gurney.

Nothing to do with the events of this morning, at least.

She shifts slightly in her chair, returning her attention to her computer. There is loads of paperwork for her to complete—at least, they do not require it to be completed by hand. The stereotype about doctor's handwriting prompted that decision.

"Mary Morstan!" a voice shouts.

She flinches slightly and gets up, peering down the hall slightly. A handful of SWAT team members are there, with guns aimed at her. Behind them, she can see Lestrade's grey head, as he commands the squad.

Her heart is pounding.

"Put your hands in the air!" Lestrade orders, the tension in the air thick and heavy.

The surreal quality of it all is almost too much. As if in a dream, she raises her hands above her head, trembling so much she is unaware of it. Two people approach her, grabbing her and pinning her to the floor. The handcuffs are placed on her with a click.

"You're being arrested for the kidnapping of Arwen Holmes," Lestrade says quietly. "You are also being arrested as an accomplice to the murder of Margaret Alvey."

Mary blinks, her eyes filling with tears.

"Does John know?" she asks, her voice shaking.

Lestrade nods, attempting to keep his gaze focused on Mary. He mustn't look away. He forces himself to watch, as Mary is roughly led out of the hospital, with patients and staff alike gawking at the spectacle.

Eventually, she is out of sight.


	13. Chapter 13

"_Only lies have details"_

_-Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

A few weeks have past since he last saw Mary. The figure in front of him, clad in orange, looks nothing like the person he had fallen in love with.

"Was it real?" John says, breaking the silence.

The first few moments of their visit were filled with meaningless pleasantries, ignoring the conversation at hand. It was almost normal, but not quite. It was empty and hollow, beautiful on the outside, and ugly on the inside.

"Of course," Mary replies. "Don't you ever doubt for one moment that I loved you, John."

Her voice breaks, and she sniffles, a few tears escaping from her eyes. Her entire world has crumbled around her, and all John can do is stare. It would have been better if she could have touched him, but no contact is permitted.

Not in Pentonville Prison.

"You aren't the person I thought you were," John says, his voice terse, as if he were talking to a turncoat soldier. "You lied to me."

"I didn't want you to know," Mary sobs, feeling her heart being torn from her body.

John huffs slightly, standing up abruptly, before sitting down quickly. He can feel the gazes of the guards intensifying, looking for the slightest sign of trouble. His reputation—more Sherlock's than his own—precedes himself.

"You lied!" John shouts, clenching his fists. His voice drops down to a deadly whisper. "I didn't fall in love with a psychopath who murders children!"

More tears pour out, yet not of guilt over the crimes she has committed. It is purely because John found out—she could have lived in perfect happiness had he never known. But because he knows, her life is ruined.

"I was ordered to kill her," Mary pleads, trying to change John's opinion of her. She had rationalized killing ages ago—why couldn't he?

_Because he's pure_, Mary reminds herself. _He isn't like you. He's better and you've lost him. _

"By who?" John frowns, his voice raising hire and hire. His thoughts are chasing each other around, colored with rage and emotions. Yet his mind, somehow, remains clear.

He can still recognize the facts—that Mary is the same person—yet he cannot accept them. It is a truth he both believes in and loathes. Belief is rarely complete.

"Magnussen," Mary explains.

"And why was he able to do that?" John seethes, grinding his teeth slightly. His blood is boiling, not so much at her, but at himself.

How could he have been so stupid to not notice his almost fiancée is a murderer? Surely, him, a veteran who works with Sherlock Holmes, would have been able to notice it.

"Because of the things he knew," Mary admits, casting her eyes down. "Please, don't make me say the things I did…Not now. I don't want you to think less of me."

"I'd hardly say that was possible anymore," John retorts gruffly.

Mary swallows thickly. Her training never informed her on how to deal with her lover. She was taught in how to kill, how to disguise herself, and how to win. The only skills she required to survive at that time.

"I killed people," Mary whispers hoarsely. "For money. And…I crossed the wrong people, so I came to England, and pretended to be Mary Morstan."

"And forced your way into my life," John states.

Mary waits for the outbursts, for the screaming and shouting over what she has said. John, for his part, sits in his seat with an incredulous look. He is almost amused by it all, she realizes with a chill.

Perhaps this is why she fell in love with him.

Mary musters up her courage, and attempts to continue. "Mary Morstan died years ago. A baby. Just picked her name off of a gravestone."

"That doesn't explain why you lied to me," John says, rising from his chair. The violent anger has cooled, like lava after an eruption. The calmness, the break in the storm of rage, is more dangerous.

An old poem echoes through her mind with a chilling effect—for her world does not end with fire. No, her world ends with ice—another method that shall suffice.

"You wouldn't love me if you knew," Mary argues. "No one could."

John doesn't argue. He merely nods, walking towards the door and tapping against it, signaling to the guards that he has finished speaking. Mary looks at him wordlessly, trying to think of something to persuade him to come back to her, to embrace her and love her.

"You're right," John agrees, his body completely still. "No one could ever love you."

She then realizes he never did love her. He only thought he did.

"Tell Sherlock…," Mary begins, but the door opens and the guards appear, whisking John away. He doesn't stop to heed her request.

But why should he?

It is a strange world, in which the doctor would stop to bend to the will of the murderer.

* * *

"Tanis, dear!" Miss Madison calls out. "We have company! Send them in, won't you?"

Tanis nods. "Of course, Miss Madison."

She puts on a bright smile, brushing her hair slightly. She sports a black pixie cut, with a shock of purple at the front—a new audition. Her previous employers wouldn't allow such nonsense, as they emphasized how she needed to appear responsible and mature at all times.

But with Miss Madison, she could dress however she likes. Sometimes, she would even give her clothing to wear. It isn't too much of a secret as to the reason why Ashley decided to give her the job—she is hot.

And beauty sometimes can speak louder than any qualifications—not to say that she lacks them.

Approaching the door, she peers out the window briefly, seeing a man dressed in a sharp coat. On the inside, she grins, quite aware of whom he is. But feigning surprise, Tanis pulls open the door.

"Miss Madison is expecting you," Tanis announces politely. "Will you be staying long, sir? I can take your coat, if you'd like."

Sherlock chuckles a bit, his own eyes flashing with recognition. "No, but some tea would be lovely."

He throws his coat off, letting it drop on the floor almost elegantly. Without needing her help at all, Sherlock heads towards Irene's study.

She giggles slightly to herself, picking up the coat and slipping the camera phone inside. Having accomplished this, she leaves for the kitchen, ready to make some tea.

Preferably without using any arsenic, of course. Tanis detests corpses.

Meanwhile, Sherlock walks into the study with charm, hearing the tinkering coming from the kitchen. He smirks a bit, imagining all of the pots and pans that must have fallen.

"Mr. Holmes, apologies for my assistant," Miss Madison says, sitting on the couch elegantly, exactly as she was the first time she met Sherlock. "You just can't find decent help these days—it's a shame Kate had to stop working."

"Irene," Sherlock greets coolly. "She died, didn't she? Kate?"

"Accident," Irene smirks. "And that's all I'll say on the matter."

Sherlock nods, hearing the sound of the kettle being set to boil. The kitchen is directly across the hall from Irene's study, allowing Tanis to hear every bit of their conversation.

"I've come to discuss terms," Sherlock says curtly. "I know that you were the one responsible for putting Arwen in mortal peril."

"Arwen?" Irene muses, smiling softly. "Oh, right. You mean the little monster. So glad to be rid of her—she wasn't worth the stretch marks."

Sherlock pauses, shaking his head slightly. Irene never fails to confuse him. He is eternally attempting to comprehend her, to appear to be something beyond helpless and confused.

"Name the price for her safety," Sherlock orders. "I'll pay it in full."

"I don't know," Irene cackles. "Perhaps I should ask for you to kneel at my feet and beg first, before I'll discuss terms, hmm? How's that sound?"

He glances her over, attempting to deduce. Since the first time he met her, his skills have improved, yet he can still understand hardly anything. The stretch marks are indeed there, but minimal—he already knows that she has a child. The rest of her is flawless and made up, in almost identical makeup.

Does she still want protection? Or is she truly simply after power?

"I could just walk out of here and leave you with nothing," Sherlock shrugs, rolling his eyes slightly in his bluff.

"Of course you could," Irene agrees. "But we both know that you won't, because you care, Sherlock, dear. You care about a child that you hardly even know. Why is that, hmm?"

Sherlock blinks. He has been asking himself this question over and over again. There is no logical reason for him to care for Arwen. She isn't really his child, and for all he knows, his sperm has been used to successfully conceive children before. He doesn't care about them.

So why now?

Is it some sort of basic instinct, to protect one's young? As much as he tries to explain it with science and logic, it continues to elude him. He cannot explain this.

It is impossible to make love logical.

"I never said I cared for the child," Sherlock mutters. "Clearly, you have something you wish to achieve from this. I doubt it's protection, and you aren't power hungry."

"I'm power hungry if I feel like it," Irene shrugs. "I've already got a very powerful friend in power, thanks to the lovely distraction of a child. What more could I want?"

"Money?" Sherlock suggests, tapping his fingers lightly against his leg. As if on cue, Tanis walks in, carrying his tea. She knows how he likes it.

"Thank you," he nods, taking the cup with care. It is ornate and beautiful, the finest bone china he has seen (with the exception of Buckingham Palace's set). He sips from it slowly, tasting the mint as it attacks his senses.

Fortunately, there is no hint of poison—he would have noticed if there were.

"I suppose that would be reasonable," Irene sighs, looking almost upset that she has won. "I really thought this would be more of a challenge, Mr. Holmes."

She glances over, seeing Tanis standing in the room still. Frowning, she waves her away, as if disgusted that her assistant wouldn't leave. Tanis leaves quickly, though Sherlock notices her stick her tongue out at Irene.

He grins a bit.

"I'm sorry?"

"I would accept your apology, but instead I'll expect you to play nicer next time," Irene smiles. "The game has just begun, after all."

"Has it now?"

Irene nods. "Very well. I see there's no point in dragging this out farther, and I have a President to ruin shortly. A million pounds, unmarked. That's my fee for the brat's safety."

"Very well," Sherlock stands up, brushing off the side of the cup of tea. His fingers stick slightly to it, yet he casually unsticks them, setting the cup down onto the table. "I expected this and have the funds ready."

Walking over to the door, he sticks his head out into the hall. "Tanis! My coat, if you wouldn't mind!"

Tanis brings it in quickly, having already brushed some of the dirt and dust off of it. She tosses it to him, grinning as she does—Scotland Yard couldn't tame her spirit, Sherlock deduces.

"Ah, yes, here it is," Sherlock mutters, pulling out wads of cash from every possible place in the coat.

"You'd have a real career in magic tricks," Irene murmurs, quite impressed.

She accepts the cash, feeling it all over and ensuring the amounts are proper. Once finished, she walks over to her safe, locking it away inside. Out of respect, Sherlock doesn't watch her.

He wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea.

"You shall leave Arwen alone, then?" Sherlock presses.

"Of course, I'll leave the brat alone. I do admit, I did enjoy ordering her death—I'd been looking forward to it for ages."

Sherlock smiles strangely. "Thank you. That's all I needed."

Pulling on his cloak, he nods at Tanis, before disappearing through the door. Grinning broadly to himself, he pulls out his phone, sending a simple text to Lestrade.

_Got the evidence on Adler. Tanis, old forensic tech of yours, assisted. -SH_

He couldn't wait to see the look of surprise on Lestrade's face, due to the fact that a member of his homeless network used to be in Scotland Yard. And perhaps one day, Irene will realize as well that Tanis is simply one of Sherlock's pawns.

One of his better ones, at that.

* * *

John looks up, hearing Sherlock enter the flat in his usual dramatic manner. He pounds up the stairs, emerging with a face flushed with excitement, his collar propped up in order to make him look even more mysterious.

"What's going on?" John muses, shoving his broken heart away. He mustn't dwell on it—nothing good can come from it. He has to hug himself and move on, to feel it briefly and then shove it away all together.

He has to be the soldier.

"Irene Adler has just been arrested," Sherlock announces.

Instead of stopping with John, he stalks towards his bedroom and opens the door. After a moment, a small child walks out.

John's heart stops.

"She's alive!" he exclaims. "You found her!"

Sherlock picks the child up, too impatient to deal with her slow walking pace. Carrying her into the living room, he sets her down on the couch, handing her his skull to play with.

To John's amusement, Arwen is instantly enthralled with it, muttering and squealing.

"She was never missing," Sherlock smirks.

"You…You bloody bastard!" John screams. "You knew where she was this entire time?!"

"I knew Mary was going to try to kill her," Sherlock frowns. "I merely prevented it from happening. Would you rather I hadn't?"

John pauses, taking a moment to let it all settle in. His fiancée to be did not kill Arwen—but she had admitted she was going to. And then, the countless number of deaths he has no knowledge of.

It changes nothing.

"The skull is funny," Arwen giggles, surprisingly articulate for her age. She flips it over, before knocking it against various objects, testing its durability.

Sherlock nods at her, before returning his attention to John. "Irene was working with Moriarty. She warned me, that this was only the beginning of the game."

"He's the British Government, now," John states sadly. "Hardly anyone can stop him but the Queen, and he's got her wrapped around his finger."

"Perhaps not," Sherlock smirks, pacing back and forth across the room. "No one ever ensured those votes were valid, did they?"

John frowns, his eyebrows creasing. "Are you saying…Moriarty cheated? That he changed the votes to get elected?"

"I doubt it," Sherlock admits. "But it's enough to convince the Queen to put my brother back into his position of authority, as much as I wish to spite him, it isn't in our best interests."

"Our?" John echoes, his cheeks tingeing a slight shade of red.

Sherlock glances at him, frowning slightly. He shoves his hands into his pockets. "John, when we first met, I told you that I wasn't interested—"

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I know!" John blurts, yet feelings of shame are quickly building up inside of him.

"Allow me to the finish," Sherlock says, rather nervously. John's never seen him look so scared before. "I told you that I was married to my work, John."

"I know, I'm not stupid, Sherlock," John protests. "And I'm not actually…"

But the words die on his tongue. _Is that really true? _John ponders, biting his lip slightly. His mind brings up dreams he has long since buried, of Sherlock naked in bed, Sherlock beckoning him towards him, Sherlock dominating him…He shudders, trying to chase the thoughts away, but they persist.

"You are a part of my work, John," Sherlock says softly, letting the words hang in the air. "No—you are my work, John."

John unconsciously licks his lips, only to be startled by the squealing of the happy toddler.

"You guys are gross!" she squeals, hugging the skull like an ordinary child would hug a doll. "Can we play house?"

* * *

Mycroft smirks a bit, sitting on a sofa in Buckingham Palace. Sherlock's text message from earlier had been a relief, certainly. He never knew that people would actually help him—thus, he never asked for help.

It never crossed his mind that Lestrade and Sherlock, together, could modify the records to indicate a falsified vote. But he doesn't need to know more than that—the less he knows, the better.

Even he isn't perfect when it comes to deception.

"Mycroft!" the Queen greets warmly, smiling at him as she walks into the parlor. "It's so good to see you—I trust that this is important, as I am rather busy, I am sure you are aware."

He smiles, looking like a serpent in a suit. "Of course. I've brought some documents that require your immediate attention, Your Majesty."

The Queen nods, though frowns slightly. "This is highly irregular, Mycroft…"

"I imagine it must be," he agrees, pulling out the vanilla folder Lestrade had provided him from his bag. "But as it is a matter of national security, I would hope you would excuse me."

The Queen grabs the folder, opening it up. A guard steps forward and she shoos him away, reading it over carefully. Her brow furrows and her eyes widen in surprise, though for a brief moment, relief flickers over her old and majestic face.

"Anthony Thompson is James Moriarty," the Queen whispers.

"There's more," Mycroft states. "James Moriarty did more than fake his identity, Your Majesty."

She flips through more papers, becoming more and more appalled, the more she reads. Her repulsion is evident, yet she cannot put the document down. Only once she has read it in its entirety does she look up, completely aghast.

"You won the election, Mycroft," the Queen mumbles, lost for words.

"So it would appear, Your Majesty," Mycroft agrees, the lie feeling slimy. He welcomes the sensation—he is a politician, after all.

The Queen frowns, motioning for her guard to return. He walks over to her mechanically, leaning over as she whispers a few words into his ear. A moment later, he nods, signaling for a few more guards to come with him. And just as they leave the room, more guards appear like clockwork.

"I'll have you reinstated immediately, Mycroft," the Queen says. "I do apologize for all of this—I may need to contact the Prime Minister, but it should not be a problem of all."

"It is simply my duty to serve, Your Majesty," Mycroft says humbly, smiling his most twisted of smiles. "It is an honor to be reinstated into service of the British Nation."

"James Moriarty will be held accountable for his crimes," the Queen promises, rising from her seat. "Now, I have a public gala to attend—I'm so sorry we couldn't speak properly, Mycroft."

_The odds you'll be able to catch him are slim_, Mycroft muses sullenly to himself. He bows slightly to the Queen, going through all of the motions, and allows his composure to slip once she has left.

He shudders, wondering what Moriarty's next move would be.

"He can only be beaten when he wants to be beaten," Mycroft whispers to himself, grabbing his umbrella and twirling it as he leaves the palace.

* * *

The lawyer beams up at the pair of them, motioning them into his office.

"Sorry about the quick notice!" he apologies, flushing a delicate shade of pink. "This trial is rather high profile, with the Queen herself being involved…I want to get my best foot forward, if I can."

Sherlock nods, his expression made of ice. He sits forward simply, observing the fat lawyer in front of them. For a lawyer in such a high profile case, he is rather young—fresh out of law school, in fact. His hair is styled in an awkward pudding bowl cup, and his Christmas sweater is horrendous.

John is immediately at ease with this man—for a lawyer, he appears to be honest and genuine, rather rare traits.

"I understand," John smiles. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Selwyn."

"Please, call me Kenneth," he grins, shaking John and Sherlock's hands in turn.

"I need to ask if you two will agree to testify at the trial of Mary Morstan," Kenneth explains, looking at the two of them sheepishly. "I understand that you were rather close with Ms. Morstan, John—can I call you John?"

John nods, clenching his fists slightly. It doesn't escape Sherlock's notice, even if he imagines himself to be above the emotions coursing throughout John at the moment.

"We were almost engaged," John answers, feeling as if the air itself were strangling him.

"I see," Kenneth nods. "I'm certain you would be an excellent character witness, help get Mary off a bit?"

John doesn't move, wishing that if he stayed silent, the entire world would forget he was there.

"What did you need me to do, Mr. Selwyn?" Sherlock cuts in, sensing John's pain.

"Since you are a witness and the father of the child, I need to review your testimony. I understand that it won't favor my client, but I do need to be prepared for it regardless."

"Of course," Sherlock frowns, peering at John from the corner of his eye.

Kenneth doesn't miss John's hesitation. "Mr. Watson, you could help Mary avoid a lot of jail time. She deserves a fair trial."

John nods. "I know."

"Will you be willing to testify then?" Kenneth presses. "The court should respond well to your testimony, though I wouldn't do anything like propose to her during the trial!"

Kenneth laughs, grinning at himself for his own wisdom and humor. John reaches into his pocket, feeling the weight of the ring. He clenches it, feeling emotional shock travel through him.

"I don't think I'll be proposing to her," John says flatly. "She tried to murder my best friend's daughter, and who knows who else she has killed. Better she rot in prison."

Panic spreads across Kenneth's face. "But, come on, John, you can't mean that…Maybe you should take a few days to think things over? We all say things we don't mean…"

"She's a horrible person," John whispers, though his voice crescendos quickly. "She lied to me and tried to hurt someone I cared about. The person I fell in love with doesn't exist, and I'd appreciate it if you stopped trying to convince me to love a murderer."

Kenneth glances at John wearily, before nodding in resignation. "I understand, John. It must have really hurt, to have her do that…I apologize."

"It did hurt at first, but not as much now," John says, glancing at Sherlock with a smug grin. "You see, I've got myself a boyfriend."


End file.
